


You're The One

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dirty Dancing Fusion, Angst, Dancing, Fluff, John carries a watermelon, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, mini-case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is seventeen years old and has his life planned out: medical school, a commission, and an opportunity to change the world. He just has to get through three weeks at The Copper Beeches - a resort owned by one of his father's patients - with his annoying sister and his perfect parents before he's off to Cambridge. But John has a secret he's trying desperately to keep, and, it seems, so is just about everyone around him, including the incredibly gorgeous and amazing dance teacher, Sherlock Holmes, and his partner Irene Adler.</p><p>Too bad Jim Moriarty seems to know precisely what everyone is hiding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be My Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for a quick readthrough to Mydwynter, Corpsereviver2, and LifeonMars. They didn't give it a hard beta, though, nor a britpick, so don't blame them for my screwups. I just wanted something fun to do, and as I've been talking about this for quite a while, I thought I'd actually give it a go.

[Chapter soundtrack: Be My Baby, The Ronettes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CiwbabGKwjM)

.........................................................................................

_That was the summer of 1961, when everybody called me Johnny, and it didn't occur to me to mind._

_That was before President Kennedy was shot._

_Before the Beatles stormed America._

_When I couldn’t wait to go to medical school and join the Army._

_That was the summer we went to the Copper Beeches._

…………………………………………………………………………………………………..

John sighs and closes his copy of Grey’s Anatomy and lets his eyes drift shut. The salt-tinged air near the coast is beginning to wash through the open windows of his father’s car, the sun warm on his skin. Only another half an hour or so until they are there – The Copper Beeches, a resort owned by one of his father’s more grateful patients.

John honestly wasn’t looking forward to an entire month stuck on the Southern coast with his parents and sister, not when all of his friends were enjoying one last summer of freedom before they all parted ways for whatever life held for them. Well, except for Harry. He was stuck with her regardless.

Harry. John watches her fiddling with her hair, touching up her fringe and straightening the wide white band holding the rest back. She catches him watching and sticks her tongue out at him. He flicks her arm and she squeals.

“Mother! Johnny’s poking me!”

“Johnny,” comes his mother’s ever-patient voice. “Stop teasing your sister.”

John rolls his eyes. “Grow up, Harry,” he says, and ignores her when she flips him the bowfinger.

…………………………………………………………………………

 “And over on the south lawn we have cricket, and in the gazebo there are complimentary dance lessons,” the loudspeaker announces, as John and his family gaze across a large lawn, bordered by a flower garden full of late summer roses and lilac. The sound of a small fountain can barely be heard over the distant, droning roar of the sea and the breeze. John thinks it’s actually quite lovely. Maybe even peaceful. There were certainly enough places to duck out and hide from—

“Mother!” Harry screeches, watching a porter carrying a large rack of dresses and another pushing a large cart of matching luggage up the winding path to the main house. “I knew I should have brought those coral shoes! They would have looked sublime with that cobalt dress!”

“You’ve got plenty of shoes,” their mother says, placating. “Your silver ones will look lovely, I promise.”

“Not having a specific pair of shoes isn’t a tragedy,” John’s father says, lifting a bag and dropping it onto the attendant’s waiting cart. “A tragedy is miners killed in an explosion, or a massive earthquake.”

“Monks setting themselves in fire in protest,” John can’t help adding. Christ, what a complete flake.

Harry just rolls her eyes at him. “Shut up, Johnny.”

John and his father just smirk at each other. Harry may be his sister, but you’d never know they were related with how absolutely empty her head can be at times. Parties and fashion, friends and schemes. That’s all she has time for.

Not John. He has his plans – medical school and the army. He wants to make a difference. Be in the world and of the world. To be great surgeon, like his father.

“Robert,” a voice calls, and John turns to see a tall, dark-haired man in a light suit striding down the path from the main house. John’s father grins and reaches out to shake the man’s hand.

“Mycroft! It’s been years. So pleased to see you,” John’s father beams. “Valerie, you remember Mycroft Holmes.”

“Of course,” John’s mother says, smiling. “Lovely to see you again. And thank you so much for the invitation. It’s been ages since Robbie had a holiday.”

“Of course, of course. I’m delighted you’re here at last. And these must be your children, John and Harriet.” Mycroft holds out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” John says, shaking Mycroft’s hand. It’s warm and soft, his fingers so long they enclose John’s hand entirely. He really is quite tall, especially next to John’s father.

Mycroft releases his hand, and studies him for a long moment. “Yes, so obviously Robert Watson’s son,” he murmurs. “Medical school and then the military for you, then, is it?”

John’s startled. “Um, yes, sir. I start at Cambridge in the fall term.”

Mycroft nods, and John feels as if he’s passed some sort of test. “Excellent. And you, Harriet? What shall you grace the world with?”

Harry giggles. “Myself, of course,” she says, and Mycroft looks surprised for a moment before he chuckles.

“Ah, yes. And quite capable of it, I’m sure.” John wants to shrivel inside. Harry’s more egotistical moments have never been more ill-timed than now, meeting someone his father obviously respects, and who respects him in turn. Mycroft doesn’t elaborate, though, and turns back to lead John’s parents across the lawn. “I’ve saved the best bungalow for you. If you like, there are merengue lessons in the gazebo in thirty minutes. The teacher is an American, a former Rockette. Or perhaps a drink at the bar before dinner…” Harry wanders off after them, and John tries to hide the embarrassed flush on his face by retreating to the rear of the car, where he reaches into the boot for a bag just as another hand closes around the handle.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” John starts, and is face to face with a young man, perhaps only a few years older than John, wearing a tight white tee shirt and a pair of jeans rolled up at the cuff. His dark hair is combed back in a pompadour, and his grin is big and bright.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Mr. Holmes is having me help with the bags today. Dodging the guests isn’t my normal routine.” The man watches John lift another bag from the car. “Though looks like you could have a job here, if you want,” he adds, and when he looks up, the man is giving John’s shoulders an appreciative once-over.

John feels his butterflies in his stomach for a moment before he ruthlessly tamps them down. Unacceptable, if he wants to make it through university.

“I’m Johnny,” he says, keeping his voice friendly and light, and closes the boot as the man starts to wheel the cart up the path.

“Lestrade. Greg Lestrade, actually, but everyone just calls me Lestrade. Well, let’s get you all settled in.” Just then a piercing shriek of laughter from the badminton court reveals Harry’s location, already courting a group of new friends. John drops his chin to his chest with a groan.

Lestrade gives him a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Three weeks here? It’ll feel like a year.”

John just groans again.

………………………………………………………………………

“One, two, three, four, stomp those grapes and stomp some more! One, two, three, four…” Irene, the dance teacher, is leading a group of guests in a staggering, ungainly version of the merengue in the gazebo, and John has never felt more awkward in his life. He can’t believe his mother talked him into this. He couldn’t even learn the basic steps of a waltz when he went to those ridiculous lessons he had to take when he was twelve or so, and now he’s here in group of people whose average age has to be about sixty, shuffling around while a bright, beautiful, graceful woman scrutinizes his every move.

“Sorry,” John mutters as he turns the wrong way and all but bounces off of an elderly woman, so tiny she barely clears John’s shoulder.

“Oh, that’s all right, dear,” She says, and pats John’s shoulder before she wobbles away. John wonders for a moment if she’s quite all there.

“Listen to the music!” Irene chirps, her red dress swirling around her as she twirls, gently correcting missteps, encouraging, and dropping knockout, flirtatious smiles with bright red lips. “Come on, ladies, God wouldn’t have given you maracas if he didn’t want you to shake ‘em!” Irene shimmies, and John’s father laughs. Valerie shoots him a dirty look, but there’s no heat in it, just good-natured ribbing. John tries to keep the beat of the song but he missteps again, and ends up trodding on Harry’s foot.

“Ow!” she snaps. “Watch those huge boats of yours, Watson,” she says, and effortlessly swirls around into the conga line Irene starts. John tries to follow behind, but gives up after once around the gazebo. Dancing really is not his forte.

…………………………………………………………………………..

“Mum, Dad, I’m going up to the main house to look around,” John says, and makes his escape before anyone can get a word in. He’s restless, twitchy with the long car ride and enforced interaction with his sister. He needs a few moments respite before he’s forced to sit through dinner.

The sun is still high in the sky at five o’clock, the long, drawn out summer evening settling warm across his shoulders. The large verandah across the front of the house draws his eye, older people sitting in the shade with drinks, playing bridge or chess, and least likely to bother him on his quiet walk. The little old woman he bumped into at his dance lesson is sitting across a table from an equally tiny old man with a white goatee. She’s nodding as he speaks, and plays her cards quickly and decisively. John reevaluates her mental state, and as she catches his eye she waves absently at him and goes back to her cards.

He slips around the chairs as he follows the porch as it wraps around the side of the house. No one is down this way, and as John has decided to sit down in a single, solitary chair perched in the corner and overlooking the sea, his ear catches Mycroft Holmes’ voice coming from one of the French doors that lead out of the house onto the verandah.

He shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he almost can’t help himself. Holmes is one of the odder men he’s met, and something about him makes John just a little bit curious. So John quietly ducks back against the wall of the house and peers through the barely-opened door, eyeing the sliver of what proves to be the dining room, beautifully laid for dinner. Holmes is standing with a group of young men, waiters from their brilliant white short coats and black trousers, and he’s speaking very earnestly.

“…remember, there are two types of employees here. You’re all university students, chosen because you are expected to have manners and taste and, above all, discretion. Provided you prove you can exercise it, I will introduce you to some of the most distinguished personages in England – and their lovely sons and daughters. This is your opportunity. I expect you to make the most of it and not to bring, in any way, scandal or disrepute to this establishment. Is that clear?”

“Imminently clear, your royal highness,” a voice—a deep, rumbling baritone—drawls, but John can’t see the speaker until he suddenly crosses in front of John’s little sliver of a view, carrying a large guitar case and being followed by a few other men. He’s tall, so much taller than John, and slim, with well muscled arms showing in his tight black tee shirt. His tousled mess of inky black curls falls over one eye, and the arrogant smirk on his face makes John’s heart skip a beat.

“Well, if it isn’t the entertainment staff,” Mycroft sneers. “Remember, little brother, I expect the very same behavior from everyone in my employ. Including you. Your job is to teach the guests the mambo, the cha-cha, whatever they pay for. But that’s where it ends. No funny business, no conversations, and keep your hands to yourself!”

Lestrade snorts a laugh. “Remember, Sherlock,” he says, mimicking Mycroft. “Feel free to get a little ass in the studio, but no conversations!”

“You’re walking a fine line, Lestrade, so you had better watch your attitude.” Mycroft says. “Now, dinner is about to start, so I suggest you all get to work.”

John quietly takes a step back, ready to retreat, until he hears a voice call Sherlock’s name. Despite his better judgment, John stills, his heart beating in his ears.

“Think you can actually follow instructions this year, Sherlock?” The man’s voice is a bit higher, with a slight Irish accent, but John can’t see who is speaking. Sherlock drops his chin to look down over the tops of his sunglasses. His eyes are like nothing John’s ever seen – a brilliant grey-blue fringed by dark eyelashes, and so cutting in their assessment of the speaker John has to look away.

“You’ve got quite enough on your agenda without bothering the staff. You just put a pickle on everyone’s plate, Jim, and leave the hard stuff to me.” Sherlock smirks as he turns and casually and flips over the intricately-folded napkin, the salt shaker, and a glass of water on the table on the way out.

John slaps his hand over his mouth before his laughter gives him away.

……………………………………………………………………………….


	2. Do You Love Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I carried a watermelon,” John says, and flushes. _I carried a watermelon? What is **wrong** with me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for a quick read and some excellent pointers to Mydwynter and LifeonMars/Marsdaydream. I still keep picking out screwups, though, so don't blame them as they didn't really comb through it. See a problem? Drop me a PM on Tumblr. My asbox anon is usually open.

[Soundtrack for Chapter 2 - Do You Love Me?, The Contours](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3EoI-6lQFIE)

 

Dinner is at the main house, and John puts on his second-best trousers, a checked shirt, and a soft button-up jumper. The nights are still cool, not a spot of cloud cover to mar the view of the stars as they walk from the cabin, across the lawn, and into the dining room.

“Ah, there you are,” Mycroft Holmes says, and ushers them to a beautifully laid table. “Now, James, this is Doctor Watson, Mrs. Watson, John and Harriet. They are my very special guests, and I expect you to provide them the best of service.”

“Good evening,” James, their waiter, says, and John has to smother a smile. He recognizes the voice as the person who Mycroft’s brother took down a peg earlier in the evening. John tries to bury his smile in his water glass and instead accidentally chokes when some goes down the wrong way. His mother gives him a strange look and Harry kicks him under the table.

James ignores John, but smiles at each of them in turn. “Very pleased to meet you,” he says, and the calculated look he gives Harry makes John shiver.

“James is at Cambridge,” Mycroft adds. “He’s studying international politics, isn’t that right?”

James nods. “Indeed. I’m interested in the relationship between not only nations, but businesses within those nations. So much in the world is done behind the scenes, you know.”

“Excellent!” John’s father says. “Johnny here is going to Cambridge in the fall. Medicine and an officer’s commission. He’s going to save the world. Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

John blushes and looks down at his plate with a small smile. He’s going to do his damndest, and his father’s faith in him is touching.

James ignores them both and looks at Harry, who has been rather obviously sizing him up since he arrived at the table. “And what do you plan to do?” James asks her.

“Oh, Harry’s going to decorate it,” John cuts in, before Harry can say something to embarrass him again.

Harry gives John a dirty look, but before she can retaliate, James says, “I think she already does,” and walks off to fetch their meals. Harry smirks at John and John just sighs. Harry might be vain and a bit of a featherhead, but she does manage to be exactly what everyone expects a nineteen year old girl to be – pretty, well-groomed, stylish, flirtatious, fun. She doesn’t lack for friends, no matter where she goes.

John, however, laments that he is never what anyone expects, once they meet Harry: he’s quiet, studious, slightly awkward, hardworking, bright, and opinionated. In short, Harry complains that John is bossy, too demanding of good behavior of himself and others, and naively idealistic. His father says it will make him a brilliant officer and an exacting surgeon. John certainly hopes so.

Because as he surreptitiously watches a blonde waiter pour a glass of wine for a guest at the next table, he just hopes he can make it through before people start asking him too closely why he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

……………………………………………………………………………..

“So, you’re going to be a doctor, then?” Molly Hooper asks John as they carefully box step their way around the main floor after dinner. Molly is the head of the Social Committee, in charge of games and recreation for The Copper Beeches. She looked barely older than John, perhaps twenty, with long, straight brown hair and a sweet smile.

“Yes,” John answers, and tries not to watch his feet. “And then joining the Army Medical Corps. You?”

Molly hesitates, biting her lip for a moment before blurting “Pathology,” and looking down quickly. “I know it’s a bit odd, but really, I just want to help people, and I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, but finding out how they died is so interesting. Like a little mystery to solve.”

John smiles, trying to reassure her. “No, no, I completely understand. I take it you don’t get a very good reaction when you tell people that.”

“Not usually, no. They sort of…run away, after.”

John laughs. He’d started out the evening trying simply to be polite, since Mycroft had basically pushed her at John when the dancing started, which left her almost as embarrassed as John himself was. John’s gotten fairly accustomed to every daughter close to his age being subtly, or, sometimes, not-so-subtly, steered in his direction, but the fact he never seems to connect with anyone is starting to be noticed. Regardless, Molly seems very nice, and John finds that the longer they talk, the more he likes her.

John and Molly continue to giggle their way through a terrible dance, and John watches the other couples in the room. So beautifully prim, so perfectly ordinary, so _acceptable_. The music isn’t too modern, the dance floor lit just so, the decor not the height of fashion but elegant and understated. His mum and dad glide around the floor as if they were born to do it. In some ways, they had been.

Except it all fits John so ill, as if everything were corners and too-small angles, penning him in with the weight of expectations. But he has his escape route planned, straight through Uni and a career so brilliant he’ll need nothing else, and noone else.

The song ends and John and Molly turn to the dais and clap politely for the band, a small group of musicians who look like they’ve been there since the Stone Age and have been playing the same music ever since. They begin to move off to the side before a flourish of horns starts the next selection and John sees his mum and dad smoothly transition into the mambo.

“Oh! The mambo! I love this dance. Would you John, please?” Molly pleads, and John gives in without much protest, trying to keep up with the quicker steps, the step-forward, rock-back of the dance he never manages to start on the right beat to save his life. He and Molly accidentally step forward into each other and they both laugh at how awkward it is.

“I told you earlier, I’m not—“ John starts before his attention is caught by a low murmur from the middle of the dance floor and a wave of people moving to the side to leave a clear space in the center.

Well, a clear space save two people: one tall, slim, and elegant, in a short-jacketed tuxedo and shining black dance shoes, and one willowy and graceful in a bright pink dress with a chiffon skirt that flares and swirls as she turns.

Sherlock and Irene.

To say that they dance the mambo is like comparing the flame of a candle to a roaring fire; John’s never seen two people who could move together like they do, their bodies so in tune they turn and wrap around each other without hesitation. John watches as Sherlock lifts Irene over his head in a spectacular throw, her body twisting in midair until Sherlock catches her under one arm and one leg at the very last possible second, her fingertips brushing the floor. She regains her feet and spins away with a lightning-flash smile, skirt flaring. Sherlock darts after her, catches her hand and pulls her back into his body with a quick tug.

Everyone on the dance floor has stopped moving entirely, enthralled. The room seems to grow darker, the beat of the music hammering in John’s ears as he watches their dance becoming more and more intimate as Sherlock and Irene sway closer to each other. It’s obvious they’ve forgotten where they are, the fact that there are almost a hundred other people in the room. They only have eyes for each other, and the electricity from their connection makes the hair rise on the back of John’s neck.

“Wow,” John says, rapt.

“Oh, they’re the dance teachers,” Molly says, frowning. “I do wish they’d not show off for each other like that. Mr. Holmes hates it, and it doesn’t sell lessons.” Molly glances to the side and then tries to subtly get Sherlock’s attention. John wonders what she’s worried about, until he sees Mycroft Holmes standing just inside the door. It’s obvious the moment he sees Sherlock and Irene, because his lips twist and he starts across the floor.

“Drat,” Molly murmurs, making a slashing motion across her throat. “Sherlock come on, just look at me, just once, come on…” John joins in as Mycroft makes his way to the edge of the crowd, and just as Sherlock spins out of a turn he catches John’s eye. John stops breathing, mesmerized. Sherlock looks quizzical for a moment until John remembers himself and tilts his head Mycroft’s direction. Sherlock understands quickly, and when he catches Irene around the waist again he murmurs into her ear. She nods, and they part on the next beat, spinning into the crowd and pulling in new partners to dance. The small bubble of dance space seems to collapse around them, and Sherlock and Irene melt back into the crowd once again. Molly sighs.

“He’ll get grief for that later, but at least Mycroft didn’t chastise him in public,” she says.

“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t Mycroft want people to see how incredible they are?”

Molly leads John off of the dance floor and toward the door. “Because he says it intimidates people. They’re _too_ good, you know? I wouldn’t want to try to dance with Sherlock. He’d spend the entire time correcting me and he’s so handsome I’d forget what I was doing.”

John laughs. “Yeah, same here. I mean, not that I would dance with him, obviously, I mean—” John stops, a bit flustered. “You know what I mean.”

Molly gives him a sidelong glance. “Yeah, I think I do,” she says.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

John leaves Molly not long after that and wanders down by the cliffs, watching the moonlight glint and shimmer off of the undulating ocean.

He has no illusions about himself, about who he is. But it’s getting harder and harder to hide, and he’s so tired of feeling alone. His friend Murray—he understands, the both of them finding solace in each other and a shared secret. Their mutual exploration had been definitely eye-opening, if for no other reason than the confirmation that they both were better off as friends, and still each other’s closest confidant. John wishes Murray were here now. He’d have laughed at John for thinking Sherlock was so good-looking, and probably figured out a way to introduce him at the same time.

John sighs and walks back toward the main house, but instead of cutting across the lawn where a few late-night revelers are still having drinks and conversation in the garden, John walks around the back of the main house, skirting a little copse of trees that leads up a low ridge. There’s a path here, a little lane lined with gravel and lit by tiny lamps mounted on small white posts. As John reaches the far corner of the main house, he notices a sign tacked to a tree next to the path that says “Staff Quarters—No Guests Please.”

Well, that’s an open invitation if ever he saw one. It’s not like he’s going to hurt anything. He just wants a look around.

The path climbs up and up as John walks, and just as he reaches a small bend in the path he hears it: music. Not a band, more like someone playing a record as loud as they possibly can, and the low murmur of a crowd. John edges around the turning and there, across a small clearing, is a large cottage with lights ablaze and windows wide open, spilling music and laughter into the night. It’s oddly compelling, and John wants to get a closer look if he can.

As he crosses to the stairs to the cottage, John sees Greg Lestrade struggling up the path carrying what looks like three large watermelons. Where on Earth did he get those?

“Hi,” John says, because there’s nothing else for it, and startles Lestrade into almost dropping one. “Here, let me help you.” John takes one of the watermelons, cradling it like a baby.

“Oh God, what are you doing here?” Lestrade says, panicked. “Go back to the main house. No guests allowed.”

“I was just out taking a walk. What’s going on up there?”

“Nothing. Just … just go back to dancing with Molly and making your Dad a happy man, and just let it go.”

John scowls and shoves the watermelon back at Lestrade. “You don’t even - you know what? Whatever, fine,” he says, and stalks back down the path.

“No, Johnny, wait, I’m sorry,” Lestrade calls after him. “Yeah, that was out of line. Can you keep a secret? Wait, of course you can. Anyway. Your parents would kill you. Mycroft would kill me.”

John, nervous but intrigued, takes one of the watermelons back and follows Lestrade up the stairs and toward the music. Lestrade turns around as they reach the double doors, gives John a grin, and bumps them open with his hip. John’s jaw drops.

The room is packed full of people; couples, mostly, dancing in the dim, smoky light of a few strategically placed lamps. They’re not just dancing though, not the primness of a waltz or the restrained sultriness of a rumba, they’re wrapped around each other, grinding, writhing, hips fitted together in ways that are both obscene and thrilling. John’s never seen so much skin, everyone gleaming with sweat in the late summer heat and the closeness of the room. It’s a mesmerizing, sexy, alive scene, sensual in a way John’s rarely ever seen and he blushes, wanting to join in and hide at the same time.

Because once his eyes adjust to the dim light, he realizes that the couples are not just boys and girls. There are also boys dancing with boys, girls dancing with girls, boys kissing boys in the corner of the room, and girls trailing their fingers up the arms of girls as they dance close, their bodies pressed together.

“Oh God,” John says.

“Hey, don’t freak out,” Lestrade says. “It’s okay, here. Mycroft knows, he does this, hires people and lets them just…be themselves. You have to be open-minded to work here or you’d never survive. We just can’t talk about it with the guests. Okay?” Lestrade gives John a worried look.

John can see why. He’s never seen such an open display in his entire life, and here, right out in public, no one seemed to mind at all. It’s unbelievable. It’s perfect. John grins, and feels the weight of years slide off of his shoulders.

Lestrade smiles back. “Excellent. I knew, the moment I saw you. Let’s go get a drink.”

John follows him toward a bucket of bottled beer. “Where’d they learn to do that?” he asks, nodding toward the dancers.

“Oh, everyone’s doing it in the basements back home. You wanna try it?” Lestrade waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

John watches a boy wrap his arms around a girl’s waist as she slowly arches backward, her body a sinuous curve until she rolls back up to wrap her arms around the boy’s neck. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and dark as she presses kisses to his jaw. John shakes his head no. There’s no way he could do anything like that, not ever. He’s too clumsy, too shy, too afraid.

Lestrade grins and winks. “Can you imagine, dancing like this on the main floor? Mycroft would probably send us off to parts unknown, call in some favors with those swotty friends of his to put us all in the Tower or something.”

John nods, understanding. It may be fine behind closed doors with a lot of like-minded people, but all of this – it’s illegal, and a single breath of any of this getting out would ruin everyone, including Mycroft Holmes. John marvels that it hasn’t, so far.

As it hasn’t, John resolves to relax and enjoy himself. But as he takes another drink of his soda, a low cheer on the other side of the room heralds someone’s arrival. A couple of someones, actually.

Sherlock and Irene, of course, still dressed to the nines from their turn around the main floor earlier in the evening. They immediately slide into the middle of the dance floor as if by right, the other dancers making way for them as they wind together, Sherlock’s hand on the back of Irene’s thigh as she hooks her leg around his hip. _Jesus._

“That’s my friend, Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade says. “He got me the job here. Great bloke, brilliant, but can be _such_ an arsehole when he wants to be.”

John nods and watches a moment. “They look great together,” he says.

“Oh, yeah, Irene. God, they really do. You’d think they were a couple, wouldn’t you?”

“Aren’t they?”

“Nah, not since we were kids. But best mates, always.”

John watches Sherlock lift Irene onto his shoulders as she laughs and flips her skirt around in a flirty display, giving everyone a quick glimpse of her knickers. Lestrade laughs and slaps John on the back before turning back to the drinks table to start carving up the watermelons.

John feels a bit awkward, standing by himself. He probably should leave, but he can’t stop watching Sherlock, who by now has removed his black jacket and is dancing in his black trousers and white shirt undone almost to the waist. His dark curls are messy, the tips shining with sweat, and the notch of his throat gleams in the lamplight.

The song ends with a lot of catcalls and clapping, and the next starts to squeals of delight. Sherlock leaves Irene to dance with a few other girls, and as he scans the floor he catches John’s eye. His face registers surprise and then annoyance as he strides John’s direction. _Oh, hell._

“Lestrade,” Sherlock calls. “What’s he doing here? Are you actively _trying_ to ruin this?”

Lestrade whips around, knife still in hand. “What? Oh, no, Sherlock, he’s with me.” Lestrade beams, before he seems to realize he’s still holding a sharp knife pointed at Sherlock’s chest and hastily puts it down. “It’s fine, trust me. He’s cool.”

“I carried a watermelon,” John says, and flushes. _I carried a watermelon? What is **wrong** with me?_

Sherlock eyes John speculatively, intently, leaving John feeling almost naked under the scrutiny. He wants to squirm or look away, but he doesn’t dare, not when he feels like he’s being judged on the strength of his heart, and he refuses to be judged wanting.

He must pass, because as Sherlock turns back toward the dance floor, he says “Coming?” back over his shoulder, and half-turns to hold out his hand.

John hesitates a moment, but takes Sherlock’s hand and follows him. He looks back at Lestrade, who gives him a thumbs-up and a grin. Great. John’s stomach is full of butterflies, his feet feel like lead, and he hasn’t the slightest idea what to do next.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, relax,” Sherlock says. “Bend your knees a bit before you lock up and fall over.”

John flexes his knees a little bit; pleased he’s still actually standing.

“Good. Now, roll this way.” Sherlock gyrates his hips. John mimics him. “Excellent. Now, the other way.” John tries to go the other way, but it feels a bit odd. “Not terrible. Let’s dance.” Sherlock steps up and wraps his arms around John – one around John’s waist and one large hand splayed in the middle of his back. John sucks in a startled breath and has no idea where to put his hands so he wraps them up under Sherlock’s arms and around his shoulders.

Sherlock gives a pleased rumble. “You’ve got good instincts. Trust them,” he says, and steps into John’s body enough that he can guide them with a push of his hips or a pull of his hands, and begins to sway. John starts to panic for a moment but then remembers where he is, and the people he’s with, and lets Sherlock’s body lead him.

The entire room begins to slide away with the pulse of the music, the heat of Sherlock’s hands on his body. John’s hyper-aware of his hips, of Sherlock’s groin pressed right at his belt, of the fact that one of Sherlock’s hands has slipped a bit on his waist and is dangerously close to his arse. Sherlock’s eyes are on his, a magnetic green-blue that John could get lost in if he let himself. The music feels like a wave, like the tide coming in to wash him away, and just as John thinks he might be a bit bold and slip his arm around Sherlock’s waist, the song ends and Sherlock spins away, leaving John swaying alone in the middle of the floor and blinking in the sudden light.

John looks over at Lestrade accusingly, his face warm and probably red. Lestrade just shrugs. “I told you he was a bit of an arsehole,” he says. John flips him off, and Lestrade just laughs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: Homosexuality wasn't decriminalized in the UK until 1967, four years after this story takes place, and even then only between adults of 21 years or older, and in "private." Hotels or other similar accommodations were not considered private. A relationship between John and Sherlock - here 17 and 21, respectively - would remain illegal in the UK until 2001, when the age of consent for homosexual acts was lowered from 18 to 16.


	3. Please Say You Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But I can’t even do the merengue,” John pleads, heart beating wildly. Oh my god how could Lestrade even think he’d be capable, and then, to go to, to, that type of place —
> 
> "See, Lestrade, he can’t even do the merengue!" Sherlock snaps, and drags his fingers through his hair in frustration. "It would be absolutely humiliating."
> 
> John feels indignation fill his heart. “Hey, now,” he says. He may not be a fantastic dancer, but he does have his pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Mydwynter, LifeonMars/MarsDayDream, and Corpsereviver2, for making this chapter better than they found it.

[Chapter Soundtrack: Stay, Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QlIipnHr8Js)

 

The next morning John is sitting on the floor of the gazebo, legs stretched in front of him, trying to touch his toes along with around twenty other people that were all roped into the early morning calisthenics programme Molly had arranged. John’s mum claimed it was good for digestion, so she’d managed to wheedle John and Harry into going with her. His father begged off and escaped to the golf course. Luckily for him. 

John breathes out and shifts to tuck one leg back in and stretches as far as he can toward the toes of his right foot. Irene is in front of them in a leotard, tights and dance shoes, and neatly lays her forehead against her knee as she stretches the same way. Ugh.

“Gently, now,” she chides, “No sense in doing this if you’re just going to hurt yourself. Feel the burn of your muscles as you slowly lower your chest toward your knee and hold…” 

John grunts and tries to hold it but there’s no use. He glances at Harry, who is not even attempting to truly touch her toes; instead she shares a giggle with her new friend Clara. Clara pokes Harry in the thigh and shushes her, and dramatically stretches until she wraps her hand around the arch of her foot. Harry sticks her tongue out at Clara but tries harder, anyway.  John sighs. Mr. and Mrs. Schumacher are even more flexible than he is, and they have to be in their 70s.  A bead of sweat slides down John’s nose and onto the floor.

“Well, aren’t you all looking fit and healthy,” a deep voice drawls from behind them, and John nearly throws his back out as he sits up out of his ridiculous pose.  Sherlock walks around the back of the class to stand next to Irene and reaches down to give her a hand up.  “Just wanted to remind you about the dance here tonight,” Sherlock says to her. “Mycroft is counting on us.” 

Irene nods. “Wouldn’t miss it,” she says, and John smiles at the false enthusiasm she puts on. “Now, everyone, on your feet, and reach high above your head.” Irene stretches and John carefully stretches along with her, trying to avoid looking at Sherlock as much as possible. He’s looking unfairly cool and unruffled in the summer heat, and the line of his body as he leans against the railing is just unfairly perfect.  John risks one more glance, though, only to find Sherlock watching him. Sherlock sees him looking and drops a saucy wink, and John goes hot at the memory of Sherlock’s hips pressed against his. John drops his arms from over his head and sits down with the class, resolutely looking at the floor.

“Johnny,” Harry whispers, and pokes him in the leg. “Hey, can you cover for me tonight?”

John refocuses on the here and now. “What? Why? Where are you going?”

“God, enough with the twenty questions. I’m just going out for some fun with Clara and a few people. We’re not leaving the hotel, just…mum and dad don’t need to know everything, okay?” 

John sighs. “Fine, whatever. Just come back at some point, okay?”

 “Okay, now its time to stretch those stomachs!” Irene calls cheerfully. “On your tummies, ladies and gents, and press up with your hands!”

John groans and drops his head into his hands.

……………………………………………………………

Afterward, John pauses next to Irene where she’s fiddling with packing all of the exercise mats into a large case. He’s not sure why he feels drawn to speak with her, but something about her eyes, the faraway look she gets when she thinks people aren’t watching her, makes her seem very alone.

“I just…I just wanted to say that I think you’re an amazing dancer,” he says. “And thanks for the lesson today.”

Irene just looks at him. “Yeah, well, it’s all part of the service.”

Oh. “Yes, well, I just … did you really used to be a Rockette?”

“Yeah, once my mom kicked me out of the house, I didn’t know anything else but dancing.”

John can’t imagine it, the freedom that would come with being away from his family. “I envy you,” he says without thinking.

Irene slams the case shut and begins to lug it off the gazebo. “Envy me? You can see just how far I’ve come, can’t you?” She doesn’t look back at John, and John feels the dismissal right in the pit of his stomach. 

…………………………………………………………….

Later that evening the fairy lights twinkle in the rafters of the gazebo.  It’s completely transformed from the place where John was sweating less than ten hours ago, mostly by carefully arranged pots of ferns and flowers, a white cloth covered table with drinks, and a record player. Harry is nowhere in sight, and John told his parents the blandest, vaguest lie he could come up with regarding her whereabouts; he’ll have to find her later and let her know he’d told them she had gone to the bowling lanes in the basement of the main house.

John sips a tonic and lemon and tries not to be too obvious as he watches Sherlock Holmes charm a tall, dark skinned woman with warm brown eyes on the dance floor. She smiles and lets him lead her in a slow waltz.

“Sally Donovan,” Molly says, appearing at his side. “MI-5, from what I hear. She’s rather brilliant. The top brass send her here to have Sherlock help with her dancing, for her cover assignments. At least, that’s what Mycroft says.  ”

John nods. “Does he have a lot of, er, students, then?”

“Oh, a few. A few of the wives that stay here through the week, whose husbands only come up on the week-end, that sort of thing.”

John stares at her, dumbfounded. “You mean, he, um…”

“What? Oh, you mean—no, of course not! Well, I mean, he probably gets a nice tip, and they do love dancing with him, but nothing more than that, I’m sure.”

Sherlock spins Sally in a gentle circle as the song ends, and a more modern song starts up. Sherlock takes his leave of Sally and walks over to where Lestrade is operating the record player. 

“Have you seen Irene?” John hears him say. “She’s supposed to be here, and people are starting to ask for her.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “No, I thought she was with Kate, but when I stopped by to ask her what music she wanted tonight, Kate said she hadn’t seen her.”

Sherlock frowns, but tries to shake it off. He asks Mrs. Schumacher to dance, leading her around the floor in an elegant foxtrot, his obvious concern still wrinkling his brow.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

John lasts perhaps another agonizing fifteen minutes of being in the same space as Sherlock before he and Molly make their escape to the main house, sneaking in through the kitchen to find something a bit more appetizing to eat than the broiled halibut he’d been served earlier that night, and which John particularly loathes. 

“Don’t you have any cheese in here?” John says.

Molly pokes him in the arm. “Shhh! You don’t want to get us caught. Chef would have our heads.”

“Then hurry up and find, I don’t know, biscuits or something. Anything but that bloody fish.”

“It was pretty terrible,” Molly giggles. “I’ve told Mycroft—“ Molly stops and John stills when they hear a sound, a soft voice on the other side of the kitchen.  Molly quickly closes the refrigerator and pulls John down to crouch in the shadow of a prep table. They breathe at each other, John’s heart beating wildly, until they hear it again, a quiet sob and a sniff of a runny nose.

John looks at Molly and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. She nods and they quietly creep around the table until they find the source of the sound: Irene, crumpled on the floor in the corner, her bright blue dress wrapped and tucked in between her knees, feet bare.

“Oh God,” Molly says. “Are you okay?”

“Sherlock’s going to kill me,” is all she says, then drops her forehead onto her folded arms. A square of paper dangles from her fingertips. John takes it.

“Five hundred quid next Thursday, seven pm, or M will know exactly where you’ve been spending your extra cash. Ciao, J.” John reads. “What the hell?”

“Oh, Irene,” Molly groans. “Please say you haven’t.”

“I can’t, you goody two shoes, why do you think he wants the money?” 

Molly presses her mouth into a thin line. “Go get Sherlock,” she tells John. 

“Molly, no, don’t—“

“Irene, you know he has to know. You need to tell him. I’ll stay with you in case anyone comes in. John, please go now.”

John figures any questions he has can wait until he gets back, so he darts through the halls and across the lawn to the gazebo, where he finds Lestrade still at the record player. John quietly explains the situation to him, and Lestrade nods and immediately crosses the dance floor to tap Sherlock on the shoulder and whisper into his ear. In a flash, Sherlock makes his excuses and runs right past John and up toward the house, and John, after a moment of indecisiveness, runs after him.

………………………………………………………………………..

“Irene,” Sherlock says, handing her a tartan blanket to wrap around her shivering frame, “You really can’t pay him.”

“Are you kidding?” she says. “I have to. And he says he won’t take the payment from anyone else but me. He’ll run off and tell Mycroft, and we’ll both be out.”

John presses himself as far as possible into the back corner of Irene’s bungalow, and tries to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Molly bustles about making tea, and Lestrade and Sherlock pace, and hover, and generally look worried.

“Here, John,” Molly says, handing him a cup.  “Thank you for your help.”

The steam is comforting, and John takes a sip. “What ‘s going on?” he asks as he watches Sherlock draw out Irene’s arm, examine it, and frown at her.

“Only two. That’s at least something,” Sherlock says. Irene looks down at her lap, blinking away tears.

“Heroin,” Molly whispers to John. “Both of them, for a long time. Sherlock’s clean, but Irene’s been struggling. Mycroft won’t have it, if he finds out. It’s a condition of them staying here.”

“—and you know we’ve got a gig at the Sheldrake that night; how are we supposed to find our way out of here if we can’t be seen by the right people?” Sherlock says, and runs his hand through his hair.

“Don’t you think I  know that? Christ, Sherlock, I’m not stupid.”

“No,” Sherlock says, and his tone is softer. “I know that. You’re one of the few who aren’t. Let’s just think our way out of this. A solution has to be possible.”

“I’m not taking any money from you,” Irene says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her. “As if I had it anyway. Mycroft keeps a very tight leash on my funds.”

“Fuck, it really is hopeless, then. We’re both screwed.”

“Don’t say that,” John says, without thinking. “Surely there’s got to be a way.” And there should be, two such amazing people shouldn’t ever sound this despairing, this afraid. If they can’t manage even as protected a life as this, what hope does John have in the wider world?

Irene lifts her head, eyes blazing. “What’s your name again? Johnny?” John nods. “Listen, Johnny, you don’t know shit about my problems.”

“Ah, I sort of filled him in,” Molly says.

“Dammit, Molls, now he’ll run off and tell Daddy and we’ll all get fired!” 

“That’s not true!” John protests. “Why would I do that?”

Sherlock gives him a speculative look. “You’re right. You have as much to lose, given where you were last night. But you’d best leave, before anything else happens that could compromise your integrity.”

“Wait,” John says, flustered. “What do you mean by that?”

“Get lost, Johnny,” Sherlock says, and pushes John out the door and into the night.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

John wanders back toward his family’s bungalow in the still, quiet evening, his mind trying to fully process what he’s seen. He’d wondered how Irene ended up here, a definite step down from being a Rockette in New York City, and now he might just have the answer. John’s never really known anyone with a drug problem before, but he’s heard enough from his father;  constant lectures about the depravity associated with drugs and his disdain for those he feels are too weak-minded to resist them.

John isn’t entirely convinced. Addiction is a powerful thing, and from everything he’s read, almost impossible to overcome alone.  It’s no wonder Sherlock wants to keep Irene close, if they’re going through it all together. He feels nothing but sympathy for Irene, and vows to help if he can.

Just as John reaches the bottom of the stone stairs along the hillside, he hears voices coming from around a bend in the path. 

“—don’t know what you think you saw, but you didn’t,” Harry says.

“Oh, come now,” Jim drawls.”You act like it was just the once. Besides, I’m sure Clara—“

“John!” Harry says, catching sight of him, and John scowls in Jim’s direction. Jim simply smiles, and his pleasant expression has a slightly vicious edge to it. “I was just heading back to the bungalow, and Jim was nice enough to walk me. Isn’t that right?”

“Absolutely,” Jim says, and places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. She can’t hide the twist of disgust on her lips. “Since your brother is here, I’ll just let you two make your way alone. Can’t have you kids out too late, after all. Who knows what trouble you’d find.” Jim wags his finger and then walks off, whistling.

“Ugh, that guy creeps me out,” Harry says, and hooks her hand around John’s arm. “Come on, Johnny, let’s go home.”

John watches Jim disappear into the night, and can’t shake the crawling feeling up his spine.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

When John wakes in the morning, he’s absolutely positive that what he’s about to do is the right thing. He washes and gets dressed quickly, and finds his father finishing his coffee on the front porch of their bungalow. 

“Good morning,” John says, and sits down, his hands on his knees. His father eyes him with some surprise.

“You look a bit serious for this time in the morning,” he says. “What’s troubling you, John?”

“Nothing,” John says. “Well, okay, something. You know how you always said I should try to help people who find themselves in trouble, or need a bit of a leg up?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well … may  I please borrow five hundred pounds?”

“Five hundred? My God, Johnny, that’s quite a sum. What do you need it for?”

“I can’t really say,” John says, hedging. 

“You always said you could tell me anything.”

“It’s sort of personal for them, but they could really use it and I’ll pay you back from my savings as soon as we get home.”

John’s father looks undecided. “Its not for something illegal, is it?”

“No, dad,” John says, and tries to look as wide-eyed and innocent as it’s possible to look. 

John’s father chuckles. “Well, of course not. I don’t know why I’d even ask that of you. Of course you can. I’ll have it to you this evening.”

“Thanks, Dad,” John says, slaps his hand on his father’s shoulder, and swallows down all the guilt that tries to claw its way out of his stomach by locking it behind a wide smile.

…………………………………………………………………..

John wraps his fingers around the envelope of cash in his pocket and climbs the stone-stepped path up to the staff bungalows later that evening.  The evening has turned cool and a bit windy, and John wraps his jumper around him and shivers as he makes his way up the path.

The party in the staff room is quieter than it was the other evening, the music low and lights dim, with only a few couples on the dance floor swaying to a slow, languorous song. John finds Sherlock and Irene dancing, wrapped around each other like two survivors of a shipwreck, as if the only thing keeping them upright is each other. John taps Irene on the shoulder and motions for her to follow him. She does, curiosity wrinkling her brow. Sherlock follows them, still holding Irene’s hand.

John turns around as soon as they reach a quiet corner. “I got the money,” he says, and holds the envelope out to Irene.

“You what?”

“You said you needed it,” John says, and is surprised at the look on Sherlock’s face—a stony anger. All of John’s warm satisfaction vanishes, leaving him cold inside.

“Are you serious?” Irene asks, and carefully takes the envelope between shaking fingers.

“Oh, I’m sure it took all his supreme courage to ask his dear daddy,” Sherlock sneers. 

Irene’s face falls. “I’m sorry, Johnny, but I can’t take it.”

“What?” Sherlock says. “Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t. Besides, I still have to be there to meet with him on Thursday.”

Lestrade edges into the conversation. “I tried talking to him earlier. He knows the act at the Sheldrake is Thursday. He’s just being a complete prick, and won’t change his mind.”

“Can’t someone fill in for her?” John asks.  There has to be some way they can do this, if John’s going to go out on a limb to get them this money, at least Sherlock could make an effort instead of being a defeatist prick about it.

Sherlock whirls on him. “No, someone can’t fill in for her, you naive little swot,” and the tone of his voice makes John flinch. “Kate can’t learn the routine because she’s on duty all week, and Anthea has to fill in for Irene for the night of the dance. Everyone works here.”

Lestrade eyes John speculatively. “Well, maybe Johnny could do it,” he says.

John and Sherlock both stare at him, dumbfounded.  “That’s the most asinine idea I’ve ever heard,” Sherlock says.

“It really is. I mean, I’m a bloke, for starters—”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock says, waving a hand. “The Sheldrake is a … club of a certain type, in Bristol. That’s not the problem.”

“But I can’t even do the merengue,” John pleads, heart beating wildly. Oh my god how could Lestrade even think he’d be capable, and then, to go to, to,  that  type of place —

"See, Lestrade, he can’t even do the merengue!" Sherlo ck snaps, and drags his fingers through his hair in frustration. "It would be absolutely humiliating."

John feels indignation fill his heart. “Hey, now,” he says. He may not be a fantastic dancer, but he does have his pride.

“You’re an incredibly strong partner, Sherlock, you know you could teach him,” Irene says, and her eyes are alight with excitement.

Sherlock crosses his arms and tosses his head. “No. He can’t. He absolutely cannot do it. I’d rather give up now.”

“Why?” John finds himself asking. Because the incredulity in Sherlock’s voice, the assumption, the belief he’s not up to the challenge —it honestly pisses John off and he can feel his courage rising.

“I can see in your face that you think you can,” Sherlock says. “You think you can tear yourself away from endless rounds of golf with your father to learn this, in secret, and then sneak off in the middle of the night to perform a dance with me, in an illegal gay club, and have noone find out? You don’t live this life, Johnny. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

John lifts his chin and looks Sherlock right in the eyes. “Try me,” he says.

Which is how bright and early the next morning, John finds himself in jeans and a white tee shirt, facing Sherlock Holmes across the empty floor of the dance studio, the beat of a mambo floating from the speakers. 

  
  
  



	4. Hungry Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Relax,” Sherlock says, and takes both of John’s hands. His voice is surprisingly gentle. “You need to feel the music. It’s not the cold, ruthless logic of numbers, but a rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Feel.” Sherlock places his hand over his chest and taps lightly, in time with his own heartbeat. John does the same, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the thrum of his own heart under his hand and the liquid pulse of the mambo in his ears. It’s clearer, the room falling away as he concentrates, the music and Sherlock’s proximity filling his senses. John’s eyes flash open when Sherlock takes John’s hand and places it on his own chest, and the heat of Sherlock’s body, the beat of his heart, is searing against John’s fingertips._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, without Mydwynter and LifeOnMars, this thing would have never made it. Bless all the betas in the world, but especially mine. <3

Butterflies bloom in John’s stomach as Sherlock clasps John’s right hand in his.  John timidly places his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and tries not to be acutely aware of Sherlock’s large hand curling around his back, fingers splayed under John’s shoulder blade.

He tries. He’s not succeeding.

“Not on the one,” Sherlock snaps, bringing John back to reality just as he barely stops himself from stepping on Sherlock’s foot.

“Sorry,” John says.

Sherlock turns toward the record player and resets the needle. ”You’ve got to find the two. Start on the two. Understand?”

John nods and holds his arms out again, trying to set his frame—a term Sherlock had taught him the first minute he’d walked in. He fights to hold his arms still, but Sherlock still pokes and prods at John until he holds the position he wants.

“I told you I’ve never done any of these dances before,” John says.

“That much is obvious. I cannot believe no one ever taught you to dance properly, given your position in life. Now, again. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.”

John closes his eyes and waits for the music, listening intently for the second beat.

“Relax,” Sherlock says wryly. The music shifts and John feels himself start to lift his foot and—“No.”

John puts his foot down.

“Now,” Sherlock says, and guides him into a simple mambo. Front ball change, feet together, back ball change, feet together, and just as John’s starting to get the hang of the steps Sherlock stops them.

“Okay. Now, again.”

John promptly steps on his foot.

It’s going to be a long day.        

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Two hours later, John is dripping with sweat and Sherlock has stopped dancing with him in order to criticize John’s posture.

“One, two, three, four,” Sherlock chants, and presses a hand to John’s lower back as he does the steps for what has to be the hundredth time. “Straighten up, three, four, don’t look down,” John rolls his eyes as Sherlock places a hand under his chin. Honestly, that you’ve had absolutely no instruction—“

“Would you knock it off,” John says, and pushes his hands away. This truly was a stupid idea. Sherlock really is such an arrogant git, and John ought to just march out of here and leave him to dance the entire thing on his own.

Sherlock crosses his arms, studying John’s face, and scowls. “Not until you get it. Now. Again.”

John sighs and straightens his back, sets his frame, and begins again.

………………………………………………………..

The next morning John is so sore he begs off breakfast with his family to lie in bed for an extra hour. Harry eyes him but says nothing, and simply puts on her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. “I’ll be at the pool,” she chirps, and leaves him blessedly alone until he drags himself out of bed and into a hot bath, letting the heat relax his muscles and draw some of the pain away.  He drowses a bit in the water and tries to let yesterday unspool in his mind, to remember the feel of Sherlock’s hands as they guided him, the rhythm of his steps and the sway of his hips as they danced.

It wasn’t nearly as humiliating as he thought it would be, though Sherlock is definitely just as much of an arsehole as Lestrade warned him about. His instruction is precise and sharp, demanding and uncompromising, but oh, the exhilaration of Sherlock’s sliver of a smile when John manages to get something right.

He still feels a bit nervous as heads up toward the main house.  He turns the corner and finds himself in a secluded little spot just under the upper verandah, before he reaches the winding stone stairs to the staff quarters. Here, he’s still hidden from the dance studio.

It wouldn’t be a bad idea to practice what he learned yesterday, just a little. Sherlock had been exacting, terse, and required perfection before he’d let John leave. John had bolted from the studio and across the lawn, just barely making it home in time to wash, change, and reach the dining room with his parents for dinner.

John tries to hear the beat of the mambo in his head, Sherlock counting off the steps, and he does a quick pantomime before realizing he _still_ started on the one.

“No,” he growls, echoing Sherlock’s voice in his head. He tries a few more times, cocking it all up each time, before giving up in frustration and stomping off to the dance studio.

“You took your time,” Sherlock says, and turns around to put the record on the turntable.  The studio is already sweltering, sunlight pouring through the bank of windows and glinting off the polished wood floor. John hesitates, but then strips his tee shirt off and tosses it to the side. God, he’s already starting to sweat.

Sherlock drops the needle, turns around and does a double take. John wills himself not to feel self-conscious, and instead holds his frame rigidly, ready for Sherlock to step into his space and take his hand.

Sherlock pauses, though, and gives John a hard, critical once-over. Oh God, what did he do now?

“Relax,” Sherlock says, and takes both of John’s hands. His voice is surprisingly gentle. “You need to _feel_ the music. It’s not the cold, ruthless logic of numbers, but a rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Feel.” Sherlock places his hand over his chest and taps lightly, in time with his own heartbeat. John does the same, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the thrum of his own heart under his hand and the liquid pulse of the mambo in his ears. It’s clearer, the room falling away as he concentrates, the music and Sherlock’s proximity filling his senses. John’s eyes flash open when Sherlock takes John’s hand and places it on his own chest, and the heat of Sherlock’s body, the beat of his heart, is searing against John’s fingertips.

They stand almost flush together, eyes locked on each other for a long moment until Sherlock places his other hand on John’s waist and guides them into a beautifully effortless mambo without John’s conscious participation.

John can’t believe it. He can’t help but smile, and Sherlock’s answering grin, bright and beautiful and a bit manic, leaves John breathless for the rest of the day.

……………………………………………………………………………

Of course, the beautiful moment John replays in his mind at every opportunity is completely destroyed after two more days of Sherlock pushing, pulling, dragging, and basically bullying John around the dance floor. Irene had popped in for one session, standing behind John as he and Sherlock danced, with one of her hands on John’s back to keep his posture in line and another on his hip to help guide him. He’d tried to watch Sherlock and Irene dance together, noted the sensuous sway of Irene’s hips and the way her body would glide from movement to movement, but John knows he’ll never look that good. He’ll be lucky if he just remembers the entire routine.

And speaking of, John thinks, sweating and annoyed and stripped down once again to jeans and no shirt, Sherlock still hasn’t taught him the entire routine. Just parts of it.

“Again,” Sherlock snaps, and John holds his arms up. They start to dance, John feeling a little more crowded than usual, and Sherlock’s face twists. “No, no! Spaghetti arms! You’ve got to hold the frame.”

“I’m trying!”

“No, you’re not. Here.” Sherlock steps back and sets John’s aching arms again. “This is your dance space,” he says, and gestures in front of John, “and this is my dance space. I don’t go into yours, and you don’t go into mine. Clear?”

John nods, and they go through the dance again, Sherlock gliding over the turns and some sort of lift without explaining how those will actually be done. It leaves John nervous and uncertain, but then slowly, slowly, John can feel his steps becoming more sure, more instinctive. Irene joins them sometimes, jumping in to correct John’s posture, the tilt of his head, even prodding and teasing him into adding a bit of extra swing to his hips.

“You’re just so … proper, Johnny,” she says, and swats him on the backside.

“Oi!” John barks. “What was that for?”

“Make you loosen up a little. You move like you’ve got a stick up your arse. Let your hips roll. Let them entice. Haven’t you ever … you know. Done it?”

John goes scarlet at the “it” with a capitol I. Sherlock has his back to the pair of them, changing the record, so John shrugs. “Just … you know. Snogging. A few times,” he mutters.

Irene squints at him, then shakes her head. “No wonder. Dancing is…it’s visceral. The beat of your heart just below your belt. Desire.” Irene executes a beautiful pirouette and then dips low, rolling her hips seductively as she moves. Sherlock wraps an arm around her waist and spins her out and back in so instinctively they barely break stride as they walk back toward John. Sherlock waits expectantly, and John finds he is oddly reluctant to touch him.

“Now,” Irene says, and somehow she must know how John is feeling, because she places John’s hand in Sherlock’s. “You dance. I’m off to give Mrs. Shumacher another rumba lesson. She’s about to wear me out, I swear.” She waves and almost skips out the door, leaving the two of them in a silent studio. John swallows and realises Sherlock is still holding his hand.

“I’ve changed the beginning of the routine just a bit,” Sherlock says. “We’ll start like this.” Sherlock stands directly behind John, his chest pressed against John’s back. John startles slightly, until one hand settles on John’s waist and the other gracefully lifts John’s left wrist in a delicate sweep until it wraps behind Sherlock’s neck.

John stops breathing, feeling Sherlock’s own breath on his neck, his chest strong and firm against John’s back and his fingers trailing down John’s arm and his side…

John bursts into laughter.

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock says.

“I can’t help it! It tickles!”

“Can you at least attempt to control yourself?”

John takes a breath and nods, allows Sherlock to lift his arm once again to wrap around his neck, and it’s all very warm and sensual and John can feel his eyes starting to fall shut with the feel of Sherlock’s breath ghosting across his cheek, catching the edge of a glance that seems almost hungry, wanting, and then—

“Dammit, Johnny, come on!”

“Sorry, Sherlock, sorry. I promise I’ll not laugh this time. I swear.”

This time John does manage not to laugh, because the desire he’s felt simmering all day builds, the shocking fire of need in Sherlock’s gaze that overwhelms him and he almost misses his cue to spin out and start the dance. Fortunately he recovers quickly, and other than a concerned glance from Sherlock, he keeps it together enough to make it through the rest of the routine.  But he can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him the rest of the day, and the weight of it carries him through a restless night, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain fall.

…………………………………………………………………………….

The rain is still falling in heavy, misty sheets as John sits at breakfast the next morning and loads his plate with so much food a grilled tomato actually topples off onto the table top. Harry gives him a disgusted look.

“What?” John says around a mouthful of eggs. “I’m starving.”

“And what, exactly, have you been doing to work up such an appetite?” she says, and her voice is saccharine sweet. John tries not to choke on his food.

“Erm,” he says, and swallows. “I’m taking dance lessons with Irene.” There. That’s truthful. Sort of. Harry shoots him an incredulous look and his mother glances up in surprise. He hopes the casual demeanor he puts on, and the fact he just keeps eating without pause, holds them both off from questioning him too closely.

“Dance lessons,” Harry repeats carefully. “With _Irene_.”

Oh, hell. “Yes. You know, to … improve before I go to university. All those … er. Obligations, and such. You know.” _Please, please don’t say anything, Harry, for the love of God._

“Well, it can only help,” John’s mother says, and takes another sip of coffee. “You’re very talented in many ways, Johnny, but, well. Grace isn’t your strong suit.”

John nods and takes a last bite of toast. “Yes, so, actually, I should go. She lets me help with some of her other lessons sometimes. To, er. Help learn dancing different partners.” Harry rolls her eyes and rubs her forehead.

John pushes his chair back and is startled as his elbow catches Jim as he approaches their table with a trayful of glasses of juice. John winces as his elbow smacks the hard bone of Jim’s hip, causing him to startle and the juice to slosh over the sides of the glasses and onto the tray. Drops spatter the front of his white jacket with a rainbow of purple, orange, and red splotches. The look of shocked horror on Jim’s face leaves John trying not to laugh and Harry snickering behind her hand.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so terribly sorry,” John says, and grabs a napkin to blot at Jim’s jacket. “I didn’t even see you there!”

Jim smiles, a slow, vicious, simpering grin. “Oh, it’s absolutely not a problem, Johnny, not a problem at all. I’ll take care of it. Now, you’d best be on your way to … where is it you’re going?”

John grits his teeth. “Dance lessons,” he mutters.

“Ah, yes. Irene is such a talent. Well, enjoy yourself,” Jim adds, and deposits the wet tray on a nearby empty table, and begins to clear up their empty dishes. “And you, Harry. Might I suggest a trip to the boathouse after lunch, and a little row on the lake? I’m sure you and Clara will find it delightful.”

Harry rolls her eyes at Jim. The odd emphasis Jim put on Clara’s name has John a little confused. Why should he care?

“Yes, fine, we probably will,” she says peevishly, and John is incredulous. Since when does Harry do anything anyone else would want her to, and especially Jim Moriarty? John looks at his parents— his father reading the paper and mother smiling and nodding encouragingly— who are apparently completely unaware of any underlying tension. “Weren’t you just leaving?” Harry snaps at John.

“Harry!” their mother admonishes.

“No, it’s fine, I was just leaving. See you later,” John says, and leaves. He but can’t help a worried glance back and sees Jim Moriarty leaning over Harry to clear her plate, his presence just a bit too close for John’s liking.

…………………………………………………………………………….

For once, stepping into the dance studio is comfortable and relaxing, and John can finally breathe again.

At least until Sherlock arrives, strips off his jacket, and starts the music. There’s something off. Sherlock is filled with a restless and manic energy, and the tension has John ready to climb the walls. It leaves him off balance and awkward, turning the wrong way when he’d had it down perfectly the day before, or stepping with the wrong foot, and feeling every single touch of Sherlock’s hands on his body as if they were live wires attached to his skin. It’s maddening, and frustrating, and the more they dance the more annoyed John becomes.

“And turn, two, three, and this is the lift, you’ll learn that later, watch your spotting, spin, spin, spin…”

John tries to keep up despite Sherlock’s constant chatter and ignores the increasing pressure of Sherlock’s hand on his hip that feels almost like Sherlock is shoving him around the floor instead of guiding. John can feel the tension ramping up as they reach the end of the routine, a dramatic finish on one knee, head thrown back, back arched, and arm extended. John drops to his knee and throws his arm back as dramatically as he can manage, and unfortunately the other arm he has wrapped around Sherlock’s waist goes along with it, pulling Sherlock awkwardly backward and onto the floor.

“Fuck!” Sherlock yells, and staggers to his feet, rubbing his back. “Are you actively trying to kill me, or are you honestly that inept?”

John can feel the imprint of every single one of Sherlock’s fingers on his waist, his hand; the bruise forming along the back of his heel, the aching muscles and the sweat trickling down his temple. He can feel the pressure of hiding, of ducking behind locked studio doors and feeling Jim’s watching eyes heavy on his shoulders, and even the miniscule amount of joy he’s found in Sherlock’s arms evaporates like mist.

“Oh, yes, absolutely, I’m sure that despite your amazing tutelage I’m just that stupid. Christ, Sherlock.” John grits his teeth and feels his temper stretch dangerously thin. “We’re supposed to do the show in two days! I’m unsure of turns and you won’t show me lifts; I’m doing all of this to save your bloody arse, and all I really want to do is drop you on it!”

Sherlock looks at him, startled, and they hold each other’s gaze for a long, long moment, the rain pounding loud on the metal roof and the tick of the needle on the center of the record echoing from the corner. It feels like a standoff, an entrenchment, and John is about to throw it in and march out the door with his head held high and leave Sherlock Holmes to save his own stupid self when Sherlock takes a deep breath and looks toward the door.

“Then let’s get out of here,” he says, and pulls John out into the rain.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a clip of this part of Dirty Dancing, if you're interested in exactly what I'm portraying. I highly encourage you to watch the movie if you haven't already!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AskeXw74alk


	5. Some Kind of Wonderful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Sheldrake Club is proud to present: Sherlock Holmes and partner in Mambo Magic!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pleased I finally got this out - and I'm so, so sorry it took so long.
> 
> Big thanks for Marsdaydream/LifeonMars for the beta. <3

Chapter Soundtrack:

 

[Some Kind of Wonderful, The Drifters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aATtWybSaow)

[Hey Baby, Bruce Channel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ik9dxkKriV0)

 

The rain is sheeting down by the time they make it to Sherlock’s car, a beat-up old Morris with rust ticking up along the chrome. Sherlock reaches past John to open the door, jerks on the handle, and curses.

“Door’s locked,” he shouts, the rain thunderously loud as it crashes through the trees. “And the keys are inside. Just be patient a moment.” Sherlock draws a long, thin wire out from the inner pocket of his jacket. John watches, astonished, as Sherlock slides it into the lock, performs a few deft twists, and pops the door open.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

Sherlock grins. “Useful little skill taught to me by a former guest. You’d be surprised how often it’s come in handy.” He laughs at John’s wry look. “Well, perhaps not too surprised.”

“You’ve definitely got more interesting skills than most people,” John says, getting in and slamming the door. “Where are we going?”

“Just a place I know,” Sherlock says as he slides in and starts the car, the windscreen wipers set as high as they can go. John shivers a bit in the damp, and admires the way the rain has left Sherlock’s curls shining, water dripping off of the ends and down into the collar of his black leather jacket. He looks cool and a bit dangerous, and as they pull away from the Copper Beeches and head off to who knows exactly where, John has to bite his lip to keep the stupid grin off of his face.

…………………………………………………………………….

“The most important part of learning lifts is balance,” Sherlock says, as he stands on a massive tree that has fallen cross-wise over a small gulley. He’s graceful, poised, bare feet on the rough wood, arms outstretched. He gives John a wink before he leaps straight up and then lands again, arms waving as he tries to keep his balance.

“Woah,” John says, and takes a step forward on the log, trying to reach Sherlock before he falls. But his balance isn’t that great, so he takes a single step and quickly sits down, legs on either side. The rain has let up, but the gulley is running full, and the wood is wet and a bit slippery.

Sherlock squats down, eyes wide with panic, and has to lean forward on his hands a bit before he’s able to regain his balance.  He stays crouched low and takes a few deep breaths, and his expression is so sheepish John has to laugh.

“Where’d you learn to be a dancer?” John asks.

Sherlock stands up again, and lifts his arms to balance as he steps forward and back along the log. John isn’t sure he’s going to answer before he finally stops walking and sits down directly in front of John. Sherlock suddenly looks much younger, and his eyes are serious.

“I was in a drugs rehabilitation centre,” he says. “With Irene. I was 18, hadn’t managed any of my entrance exams for university, and was probably dropping almost 500 quid a week on cocaine.”

“My God,” John says. “I’m surprised you aren’t dead, to be honest.”

“Well,” Sherlock says, and swings his feet a bit. “It was a near thing. Mycroft found me after a particularly bad night three years ago, and forced me into the centre by dint of hauling me up bodily and taking me there. I was a bit…er. Well. Very indisposed. But I found Irene there. She was in the women’s wing, of course, but that didn’t matter much during recreation, when we mixed. Or at meals. Or at any time Irene determined was convenient to her.”

John snorts. “Yes, I’m sure she did exactly as she chose.”

“Indeed. And one day we were sitting together in the recreation hall, bored out of our minds, when an older woman, Annie, started playing a record. A samba, of all things. She’d wanted to dance, and no one there knew enough to dance with her. So she taught us. She was an absolutely glorious dancer, graceful and elegant. Dignified.” Sherlock looks down and picks at the bark, forehead furrowed.

“What happened?” John prompts, gently.

“She died. Overdose. Heroin. She was fifty-seven.”

“Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

“Irene and I left after that. I came here on the condition Irene could come with me, and Mycroft kept us on the condition we didn’t relapse. So, you see, keeping Irene’s slip up completely quiet is important.”

John nods, then shakily gets to his feet. His toes dig into the rough surface and try to find purchase, and when they do, John lifts his arms out to the sides and stands perfectly still for a moment before shifting his balance and holding a hand out to Sherlock. His heart is pounding in his ears, blood thrumming through his veins, and he feels the first shimmering thread of a connection stretching out between them, solidifying when Sherlock smiles and takes his hand.

………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“Hold your head up, hold it up! Hold it up!” Sherlock’s voice climbs in urgency as he holds John over his head in the middle of the lake, John’s body perched precariously above Sherlock’s head and cool lake water dripping into his eyes and off of his chin.

Sherlock had moved them to the lake, reasoning the buoyancy would help John with the jump and provide a safer place when he falls—John accepted right off the mark that he is going to fall, no _if_ about it.  He’s not managed to hold himself in the proper position for longer than two seconds before tipping over head first into the water.

“Sorry!” John gasps as he breaks the surface yet again. He’s never going to get this part, he’s sure. Sherlock is incredibly strong, his arms lean and sinewy, and he can lift John with relative ease, but John is still jittery every time Sherlock plants his hands against John’s hips and lifts him into the air.

“Again,” Sherlock demands, and John digs his feet into the muddy bottom of the lake, launches up and over, Sherlock’s hands on his hips beginning to feel like a safe cradle instead of a tiny platform. Just as John reaches the point of balance at the very crest of the lift, he feels just a bit awkward so he shifts his hips ever so slightly in Sherlock’s hands.

“No!” Sherlock snaps. “Steady, Johnny, steady—“

But it’s too late. John over-balances and yelps a warning, Sherlock‘s arms crumple as John flails, and Sherlock falls over backward.

John gets a face full of cold lake water. 

They both surface at the same time, laughing. Sherlock reaches out and peels a leaf off of John’s shoulder, his fingers lingering on the curve of John’s deltoid. John just stares at Sherlock’s hand, dumbstruck and heart hammering.

Sherlock draws his hand back slowly to push his wet hair out of his eyes. “I think a break is in order,” he says, and wades his way out of the water and up onto the small pebbly shoreline. He collapses on his back, an arm over his eyes.

John unabashedly looks his fill, then, at Sherlock’s bare chest, the concave dip of his slim stomach where the water gleams on his pale skin. John feels drawn to him, his ears ringing with the hush of the clearing, the trees muffling any sounds from the outside world. He quietly walks out of the water and perches on the rocks next to Sherlock, content to sit for a moment, but even as he flicks a pebble into the water he can’t help himself.

“What do you plan to do in London, when you get there?”

“Hm? Oh,” Sherlock drops his arm away from his eyes and blinks up at John. “My brother wants me to go into government service, but I have no interest in being one of his bloody drones.”

“So, what, then?” John prods.

“I don’t know. Dancing, of course, but not just that. I’ve considered forensic pathology, too. I love solving riddles, puzzles. But while pathology is fascinating, I don’t know that I could do it every day.”

“Unlike Molly,” John laughs. “She seems fairly set on it.”

Sherlock smiles. “She’s quite brilliant, actually. She’ll be excellent. Lestrade is hoping for a place at Scotland Yard. Me? Well, all I ask for is that I not be bored.”

John cocks his head and looks him over, contemplative. “I think you could be anything you want to be.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock says, waving his hand dismissively. “You have an easy time saying that. Wealthy parents, easy time at school, easy time making friends. You’ve successfully joined the rugby team, the football team, and play the clarinet. Even your homosexuality has been carefully and quietly suppressed. Only one person in your entire life knew about it before now.”

John can feel his mouth drop open, and the clatter of the pebbles that were in his hand as they rain against the beach seems excessively loud. “How can you possibly know—“ he starts, but Sherlock talks over him, rushed and a bit sharp.

“You’ve got your entire life planned out, organized, down to the last detail. So forgive me if I find your faith in my future less than reassuring.”

Sherlock abruptly stands, pulls his tee shirt from the boulder he was leaning against, and stalks off toward the car. John, lost, can do nothing but follow him there.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

“I look like an idiot,” John says the next day, as Irene dabs a bit of rouge on his cheeks.

“Oh, stop, you need a bit of makeup under the stage lights or you’ll look washed out and featureless. It’s not like I’m caking you up with mascara and eyeshadow.”

John tugs on his black bowtie. “And a tuxedo? Seriously? How am I supposed to hide this on the way to the car? Harry will see me and I’ll never manage to leave, or at least get her to not tell Mum and Dad before I get back.”

Irene smoothes down his lapels. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a plan. Now. Take a look.”

John looks in the full-length mirror in Irene’s bungalow. He’s dressed in Lestrade’s tuxedo, a bit big in the shoulder and trousers hastily tacked up to the correct length, but he doesn’t look too terribly rumpled. His hair is slicked back, shiny and smooth, Irene’s makeup is subtle, and he looks like he even has cheekbones, for heaven’s sake.

It’s … like he’s a different person, transformed in a short week from studious, quiet, perfect John to…to what, exactly?

The realisation that he’s about an hour from going on stage and dancing —with Sherlock, with a _man_ — in front of hundreds of people suddenly hits him right in the gut and he blanches.

“Christ, Irene. I’m terrified. What if I trip? What if I forget to spot and get dizzy and fall on my face? What if someone recognizes me? What if I—“

“Stop, for God’s sake, Johnny, you’ll be fine.” Irene pats him and smiles at him in the mirror. “Just let Sherlock lead. And keep your back straight.”

John nods. “And you’ve got the money stashed safe for tonight, yes?” he asks.

“Yes, right under my mattress. I’ll get it taken care of, no problem. And thank you, Johnny. I…” Irene falters and looks down, cheeks pink. “I’m not used to people wanting to help. If I’ve seemed ungrateful, please understand that I—“

“No, none of that,” John says, and turns to give her a hug.”It’s my pleasure. We’ll all have a smashing time tonight when Sherlock and I get back, and you can laugh as he runs down every single mistake I make. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Irene says, then taps him on the nose. “And don’t forget to lock your frame.”

John groans and lets Irene steer him out of her bungalow and down to where Sherlock’s car is waiting, hidden behind a grove of trees and ready to drive them into Bristol.

……………………………………………………………………………….

The car ride is silent, tense, not even the radio on to distract them. The sun has set and the sky is fading to a deep rose gold, and as John sees the lights of Bristol come into view, he takes a deep breath and grasps his courage tight.

“We’re here,” Sherlock says quietly, and pulls the car off into an alleyway tucked behind a pub and a clock shop. There’s a door off of the alley with a single light over it and a small, green sign with gold lettering marking the address as “65 Pearl St,” and nothing more.

“That’s it?” John asks, peering into the dim pool of light. “I expected…I don’t know. I have no idea what I expected.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you can advertise, Johnny. People who need to know find out, and those who don’t can’t find it. It’s better for everyone that way. ” Sherlock turns to face John right outside the door. “Just…Johnny. I appreciate what it’s taken for you to do this, and what it means. Just know that no matter how this goes, I won’t forget it.”

John goes scarlet. “Um. I … it’s my pleasure, really, I mean I-I- I just wanted to help,” he finishes lamely. “I don’t know if I will, though. I still think I’m going to absolutely cock this up.”

 Sherlock smiles at him then, a big, bright, confident smile that makes John’s knees go weak. “You’re incredibly courageous, John Watson. And how could you possibly cock it up? You’re with me.”

John laughs, a bit relieved. Thing is, Sherlock’s not wrong.

…………………………………………………………

“The Sheldrake Club is proud to present: Sherlock Holmes and partner in Mambo Magic!”

The lights are dim, only a backlit blue filtering over the stage, and John can pick out every single candle on every single table in the audience, until the spotlight snaps on and he’s momentarily blinded. His entire body goes tense and sweat beads up on his temples. John grips Sherlock’s hand.

“Relax,” Sherlock whispers in his ear. The music swells, John lifts his arm to wrap up and around Sherlock’s neck, and is so nervous he can barely feel Sherlock’s fingers glide down his side, but he spins out right on cue.

And promptly stumbles as Sherlock pulls him back into position to start the mambo.

 _Damn, I didn’t even make it through the first step!_ John reflexively puts both hands up on Sherlock’s lapels and freezes in place, breath stuttering in his chest and shame flooding his veins, until Sherlock puts his fingers under John’s chin and forces his head up until he can look John in the eyes.

“Breathe,” Sherlock mouths, and then the subtle push on John’s hip kickstarts his body, and before he takes another breath, he’s moving, muscle memory and Sherlock’s strong arms directing John into their routine, as simple and smooth as if it were yesterday in the dance studio. John follows the steps, the spins, turns, and kicks of the last week cemented into his brain.

_Chin up._

_Back straight._

_Lock your frame._

_Look Sherlock in the eyes. Spot._

_Turn tight._

_On your toes._

John starts to relax, can feel himself sort of getting into it, into the smiles and clapping from the audience, until he turns just a half step too far and finds himself facing the opposite way he should be.

Oh buggering, sodding _hell._

“This way,” Sherlock hisses, and grabs John by the arm. John pastes his smile on his face despite the fact he wants to crawl into a hole and die from embarrassment as he awkwardly tries to turn himself back around to face Sherlock and continue. Sherlock tries to direct him with a kick to his foot and a hand on his hip. John manages to find his way back to face Sherlock with hopefully as little awkwardness as possible, just Sherlock spins himself out across the stage, leaving John alone on the other side. John realizes with a sinking stomach it’s time to do the lift.

“Ready?” Sherlock asks.

Oh God. He can’t. But he has to.

But he can’t.

But he tries, takes four running steps across the stage toward Sherlock’s waiting and encouraging hands, and at the very last second stops dead, his feet glued to the floor. Sherlock nods encouragement, but John backs off with a small shake of his head. It’s just impossible, he knows he’ll fall and ruin the entire show, maybe even break his leg or his arm and then where would they be?

Sherlock’s mouth twists in irritation, but he shakes it off quickly and leads John into a deep, backward leaning dip that most certainly wasn’t in the original routine, but brings them back to the right spot just in the nick of time to hit their cue for another set of intricate spins that lead them to the finish, and they both drop to one knee, one hand extended behind them, the music ends and the lights go dark.

John can barely breathe, there in the dark, Sherlock’s arm a solid line along his back and the stage hard and gritty under his knee, and oh God, what if he cocked it up so spectacularly no one even claps?

But the lights come up, and applause swells, and while it isn’t a raucous chorus demanding an encore, it’s a respectable, happy, contented crowd. A crowd that apparently includes Mr. and Mrs. Schumacher, tucked away at a table halfway from the stage.

What on _Earth?_

But Sherlock turns John to bow to one side of the room, and when John turns back they’re nowhere to be found. John tries to shake it off. Perhaps he was just seeing things, or it was a couple that looked sort of like them, two elderly, white-haired people enjoying a night out. But here? John’s not sure. The audience is filled with people old and young, the majority of tables full of men who may be couples or not, just like a crowd at any other nightclub John could imagine. John watches the smiling, admiring faces for a moment.

It all seems so…

And when Sherlock smiles that megawatt smile at him again and leads him off of the stage to collect their fee, John realizes that it could be, if he wanted it.

 Normal. Everyday. Common.

Suddenly John wants that more than he wants anything else in his entire life.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

The car ride back is so far removed from the drive there it’s night and day. The atmosphere is crackling with energy, and John is high on adrenaline and the strength of Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock tugs his tie off as he drives and tosses it in the back seat where John is trying to discreetly strip out of his tuxedo without looking like he’s putting on a show.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t do the lift,” John says, and his words are muffled as he tries to shrug his shirt off of his shoulders. “I was ready, but then at the last minute I just couldn’t make myself. I kept seeing visions of myself pitching over and into the audience.”

“It’s fine. We picked up the next cue without a problem. If anyone noticed, they’ve shrugged it off.”

John snorts a laugh as he slides his undershirt off over his head, and when he drops his shirt onto the backseat, he looks up at catches the flash of Sherlock’s eyes in the rear view mirror, watching him intently.

John swallows. It’s not like Sherlock’s never seen him without a shirt on before, but this feels different, more intimate somehow, in the darkness of the backseat of Sherlock’s car, speeding along the quiet roads at a quarter ‘till midnight.

John swallows, his heart a heavy thud in his chest, and keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock’s until the glare of lights from an oncoming car startles them both.  John quickly looks away. He  pulls on his simple button-up and his jeans, and after debating with himself a second, he climbs over into the front seat.  He’s not ever been so bold before, but he’s fairly sure that if he slid across the seat right now and put a hand on Sherlock’s leg, maybe pressed  a kiss to Sherlock’s ear, that he’d end up naked in the back seat with Sherlock between his thighs. 

John tries not to shiver, to keep his body uninterested in that train of thought, and just as John takes a deep breath to ask Sherlock if he could perhaps come to his bungalow for a quick drink, maybe talk further about the night, they pull into the drive at The Copper Beeches. Sherlock turns off the headlights and takes the shortcut around the back side of the main building toward the staff area as quietly as the old Morris can manage, and parks in front of his bungalow.

Sherlock kills the engine and turns to face John in the tiny, quiet space. John swallows and his hands clench in his jeans. He can feel his body go hot all over, the anticipation of whatever Sherlock is about to say flooding his veins and buzzing in his ears.

“John, I wonder if—“ Sherlock starts, voice low and sultry and John’s ready to say yes already, yes to whatever it is and they both jump as the silence is broken when Lestrade starts to beat frantically on Sherlock’s window.

Sherlock curses and throws open his door. “What is it, what’s going on?”

“Oh, thank fuck you’re here, oh my god, it’s Irene, come on, you’ve got to come.”

John climbs out as well, his stomach lurching with long-suppressed nerves. “Wait, what? What happened? I thought she was just going to drop off her payment and everything would be fine!”

“No, no, she did, but somehow she managed to score something, I don’t know what, heroin or cocaine or something,” Lestrade is running ahead, trying to shout over his shoulder as Sherlock and John run behind and up toward the staff area. “But she’s out cold in her room, I just found her a minute ago. She’s breathing, but barely, and her pulse is all crazy.”

John’s almost out of breath as they all burst into Irene’s bungalow. She’s draped across her bed, arm bare and the red pinpricks of needle punctures starkly visible in the crook of her elbow. Sherlock immediately tries to lift her into his arms, and as he does so, her head rolls back, limbs slack and loose.

“No, no no no, Irene, no, please!” Sherlock shouts, his fingers on her neck. “Christ, she’s going to go into cardiac arrest. We need a doctor, something, right now!”

His pleading eyes fall on John, and with a quick nod, John is out the door and sprinting for his family’s bungalow, where his father, his doctor father with his medical bag and his high ideals and his hopes and dreams for John, is sleeping peacefully, unaware of what John is about to drop on his doorstep.

……………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Cry To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes into the bathroom, clicks on the light, and looks critically at himself in the mirror. Smears of makeup run down his face where the sweat beaded up, and his collar is an unsightly mess of smudges of powder and rouge. He should just wash up and go to bed, honestly. But he looks himself straight in the eye and knows he can’t leave things as he did with Sherlock, with his father’s unjust accusations hanging in the air and the heat of the night wrapped close around them.
> 
> So he washes, changes his shirt, and quietly slips away into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to Mydwynter and Marsdaydream, and new addition BakerStMel, for excellent and thorough beta. I do, occasionally, ignore things they tell me, though, so if there are screwups, that's on me. <3

Chapter Soundtrack:

[These Arms Of Mine, Otis Reading](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUaO50nWnvg)

[Cry To Me, Solomon Burke](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0lUGwbegMKs)

 ...................................................................

The stone steps are still slippery with the day’s rain as John runs and slides his way down toward the main house and across the lawn. John’s navigating by half-broken moonlight save a few lonely Chinese lanterns in the gazebo, and he has to carefully skirt around every stray stone, croquet wicket, and lawn dart left on the grass. He finally reaches his family’s bungalow and throws himself through the screen door, remembering at the last second to catch it so it doesn’t slam shut. The last thing Irene needs is a scene, or anyone else knowing what’s going on, if he can help it.

The hall is illuminated by a tiny little lamp, and when John cracks the door to his parents’ room, he can just barely see the outline of his father’s shoulder. He creeps across the floor, carefully, so carefully, and gently lays a hand on his father’s arm.

“Mmmph,” his father says, shrugging. “What, Johnny. Sleeping.”

“No, Dad.  You need to come. Someone’s sick.” John can feel every heartbeat in his chest, so strong they thrum in his ears.

“Sick?” Robbie Watson is awake in an instant, and slides out of bed with the practiced ease of 25 years of midnight bedside calls. John’s mother doesn’t even flinch. “Let me get my trousers. Grab my bag, there’s a good lad.”

John clutches the bag in sweaty hands, and holds the door when his father, not more than two minutes later, strides toward him with shoes in hand.

“We’ll just put these on outside,” he says. “Where are we going? Main house?”

“No, Dad. Staff. Around the back.”

Robbie pauses in the act of sliding his shoes on, but otherwise says nothing else as John leads him back across the property and toward Irene’s bungalow. Greg and Molly are on the veranda, and as soon as they spot John and his father their relief is palpable.

“There, I take it,” his father says, and strides ahead, up the stairs, and brushes past Molly and Greg without a word. John follows, and when he walks in there’s Sherlock, rising from Irene’s bedside.

“—Doctor Watson, thank you, I believe Irene is suffering from an overdose of…of heroin,” Sherlock is saying, sliding out of the way for John’s father to sit next to Irene and take her pulse. “My estimate is a tenth of a gram, not more, but she’s been clean for so long I believe—“

“Yes, I am fully aware of her situation, thank you,” Robbie says, and his voice is cold, colder than John’s ever heard it before. “If you’ll leave, please, I have a patient to attend to and you’ve done quite enough already. Don’t you agree?”

John is shocked. “Dad, no, see, Sherlock was—“

“Out,” Robbie says, and rises to shove them both out of the door and close it behind them firmly.

…………………………………………………………………………………..

John, Sherlock, Molly, and Greg sit on the steps to the veranda for what seems like an eternity, the silence of the night falling heavily around them. None of them seem inclined to talk, and John can’t stop staring at the side of Sherlock’s head, tilted against the bungalow a step below. He seems slumped, tired in a way John’s not ever seen him.

John feels tired, too, the crash of adrenaline catching up with him and leaving him spent. He’s not sure what’s going to happen now; his father will certainly figure out that his being on the scene here was no accident, but he sort of hopes that Molly’s presence perhaps alleviates any suspicions he might have, or maybe the assumptions will simply remain assumptions, and he’ll get a manly sort of back-slap for his supposed conquest.

The door creaks open, and all four heads snap up to watch Doctor Watson walk through the door. He looks a bit haggard but content.

“She’ll be fine. A shot of adrenaline and some supportive fluids, and some rest. Liquids only for tomorrow, until we’re sure she won’t vomit.” His eyes catch John’s, widen for a moment in surprise, and then narrow in on Sherlock. “You’re very lucky your brother confides in me, young man. I was prepared for this sort of eventuality, though he seemed to think it wasn’t likely.”

“It wasn’t,” Sherlock says. “She’s been compromised, and—“

Robbie holds up a hand. “No, no excuses. I’ve heard them all. I have half a mind to tell your brother all about this. However, I won’t. Just keep your nose clean.” He looks at where John has leaned so close to Sherlock their sleeves are touching. “And stay away from my son. And you, Johnny, you get back to the house right this instant and wash that muck off your face before your mother sees you.”

John’s confused until he looks at Sherlock and Sherlock’s eyes go round. Oh God. The makeup. The stage makeup Irene put on him for the dance. “Dad, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation—

“Not now. It’s late. Come on, Johnny. This instant.”

John takes a deep breath, ready to argue, until Sherlock shakes his head. John lets it out in a huff, defeated, and silently follows his father back to their bungalow.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Robbie says, before he disappears into his room and closes the door.

John goes into the bathroom, clicks on the light, and looks critically at himself in the mirror. Smears of makeup run down his face where the sweat beaded up, and his collar is an unsightly mess of smudges of powder and rouge. He should just wash up and go to bed, honestly. But he looks himself straight in the eye and knows he can’t leave things as he did with Sherlock, with his father’s unjust accusations hanging in the air and the heat of the night wrapped close around them.

So he washes, changes his shirt, and quietly slips away into the dark.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

His knock on Sherlock’s bungalow door is so quiet he’s unsure if Sherlock hears it. There’s music wafting through the open windows, and a light glows low behind gauzy curtains. He knocks again, a bit louder. John flinches at the sound echoing through the trees, ready to run should anyone see him. This is completely mental. He has no real reason to be here other than he just wants Sherlock’s nearness, the comfort of his self-assurance and his smile. John’s feeling upended, loose and unmoored, and Sherlock feels like the only tether that’s real, that’s grounded in the world John wants.

“What?” Sherlock snarls as he opens his door. “Oh, Johnny. Um. Sorry.” Sherlock looks a bit sheepish. “Do come in, please.”

“Um, I… well. Okay,” John says and rolls his eyes internally. What an idiot. How is it that he can’t seem to say two words to Sherlock without being completely tongue-tied?

Sherlock gestures John to a chair, then crosses the large, open room and fiddles with the record player. He’s taken off his shirt and is barefoot, black trousers from the dance hung low on his hips. His pale skin gleams golden in the lamplight, the cut of his muscles defined by shadow. John rubs the back of his neck and tries to gather his words.

“I just wanted to say sorry, about earlier. About my father. He’s very protective.”

Sherlock drops the record on the spindle and turns around. “No, please. It’s all right. It’s a common enough assumption, after all. And he did take excellent care of Irene. He’s an exemplary doctor. So thank you for bringing him.”

“No,” John says staunchly. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. He had no right.”

“Are you serious? Johnny, welcome to my life. That’s how most people see me, or don’t you realize that? Mycroft Holmes’ junkie little brother, sponging off his family because he’s incapable of anything else.”  Sherlock flips the empty record sleeve into a pile with an annoyed flick of the wrist.

“That’s not true!” John says, his frustration at the injustice of it all getting the better of him. “It’s not. You’re so brilliant, Sherlock.  You’re like no one I’ve ever met. You could do anything you set your mind to. I mean that.”

Sherlock huffs a derisive little laugh, then runs his hand through his hair. “You know what, Johnny. You’ve always had it so simple. You’ve never known what it’s like to be afraid, be really afraid, in your entire life.”

John can’t help but step close Sherlock.  He’s twisted John’s orderly little life into something unrecognizable yet true, something more starkly honest and exhilarating, like a freefall without any idea of when he might hit bottom. “You have no idea about my life, Sherlock Holmes. I’m scared of who I am, of what I did tonight. I’m scared of what happens next.” John pauses, meets Sherlock’s eyes, big and wondering and oh, so beautifully sad. “And more than anything I’m scared of not feeling again in my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.”

Sherlock closes his eyes then, and swallows heavily. John can barely breathe, and as the record drops and a slow, sultry beat starts, John can think of only one thing to say.

“Dance with me.”

“Now?” Sherlock says.

“Yes. Right here. Please.” John lightly places his hands on Sherlock’s chest, his skin running hot under John’s fingertips. His instincts tell him to pull away; that the heat is too much for his heart, his mind, but he simply breathes, staring at the hollow of Sherlock’s throat until he feels Sherlock’s arms wrap around his back to bring them closer together. They’re so close they’re in the space of each other’s breath, the press of Sherlock’s body a long, lean line against his front. John melts into his embrace, giving himself over to this moment and to the heat building inside him, to the desire that’s been simmering in his veins since he first saw Sherlock on the dance floor.

Sherlock shifts as he senses John’s surrender, pulling John closer still, and guides John’s body as he sways, gently at first, a simple back and forth until John loses himself in the music, in the feel of Sherlock’s hands on his body, the smell of Sherlock’s shampoo and sweat. It feels natural to plant a foot between Sherlock’s and arch back in a dip he’d never have trusted himself with yesterday. But he trusts Sherlock, now, trusts the instincts of his own body, and Sherlock’s, to lead him.

Sherlock guides him back up, and as John rights himself he leans forward in Sherlock’s embrace to press a single kiss to Sherlock’ beautiful collarbone, smiling as the muscles around it flex in surprise. Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath spurs John on, and he drags his nose up Sherlock’s throat to press his lips to the underside of his jaw, his ear, until Sherlock turns his head and captures John’s lips in a searing, searching kiss.

Nothing in John’s previous fumbling snogs with Murray prepared him for this. There’s strength and confidence in Sherlock’s kiss, and Sherlock’s lips flare heat in his chest. They break apart and John is flushed, hard in his trousers and breathing much too heavily. God, he wants that again, having his breath stolen from his lungs and his heart held on a string and a chill of delight racing down his spine. Sherlock smiles against his lips when John mumbles “Again,” and kisses the corner of John’s mouth while he smoothes a maddening hand over John’s hip.

“I told you that you have courage, John Watson,” Sherlock says. “I just didn’t expect quite this manifestation of it.”

“I didn’t, either,” John says, and tries not to hyperventilate when Sherlock’s fingers find their way under the edge of John’s shirt.  

“Tell me,” Sherlock whispers between maddening little kisses to John’s throat. “Tell me you’re ready for this.”

John pulls away and knows that Sherlock doesn’t just mean physically, but more that this is a final step, a line being crossed, and he’s giving John a chance to turn back and hold onto the fiction he’s built around his own life.

John meets Sherlock’s eyes and pulls him toward the bed, knowing that his body moving with Sherlock’s will tell him how he feels better than his fumbling attempts at words ever will.

………………………………………………………………………………………..

The lamplight shines on Sherlock’s curls as he teases John’s navel with his tongue, making John twitch and giggle even as he arches into the heat of Sherlock’s touch.

“Stop, stop, tickles, oh God, no, don’t stop,” John says, and hooks his heel around the back of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock, the berk, just laughs and does it again, finishing by nuzzling into the crease of John’s groin.

John’s glad they had become so comfortable with each other’s bodies the last few weeks. That meant the least of his concerns was stripping his clothes off in front of Sherlock. But when Sherlock had led him to bed, crawled between his legs and pressed his lean, hard body to John’s, the butterflies had started up in his stomach and still haven’t abated even as desire floods his body with adrenaline.

He has no idea what he’s doing. It’s apparent, though, that Sherlock really, really does.

“Noone’s ever done this for you?” Sherlock says, and pauses, John’s cock just millimetres from his mouth. He licks his bottom lip and looks up at John from under sooty lashes, and John has to close his eyes to keep from coming right then and there.

“No?” John says, and hates how unsure he sounds.

Sherlock brushes his bottom lip against the head of John’s cock. “Then I’ll enjoy being the first,” he says, and John reflexively clutches the sheets in his fists when Sherlock slides John’s cock into his mouth, just the head at first, and sucks lightly.

John’s fairly sure he can see stars. Maybe even the entire universe; he isn’t sure right now. “Jesus, oh my God, I’m going to come too fast, Sherlock—“

Sherlock pulls off from his gentle sucking. “I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to love it. All of it. Let go, Johnny. Trust me.”

And as Sherlock bends his head to take John fully into his mouth, John does exactly that—lets Sherlock lead him as he always does. John sighs at Sherlock’s touches, blissed out and eyes closed. The click of the record player loud in his ears, Sherlock’s hair silky between his fingers, the rasp of Sherlock’s five o’clock shadow rough on his thighs. Sherlock hums encouragement around John’s cock as he licks and sucks and teases and John shudders and tries not to buck up into his mouth.  When Sherlock finally takes John’s cock deep in his throat and massages behind John’s balls, John can’t hold back his moan as his orgasm builds and rolls through his body, tearing through him like a storm, like an overwhelming tide that leaves him washed up on an unfamiliar shore, Sherlock’s bright and pleased expression the only thing left to cling to.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, here's a link to a clip of this scene from Dirty Dancing:
> 
> ["May I come in?"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1OGN-1QhHI)


	7. Love is Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re back in the studio, John having snuck away after breakfast with a mumbled “There’s charades in the East Wing,” and to John it’s the most comfortable he’s been since he left Sherlock’s bed a few hours previous. They’re playing music, goofing around, flirting, dancing, and snogging desperately whenever they’re sure they have a few minutes alone.
> 
> “How do you call your loverboy?” Sherlock sings, and prowls across the floor toward John.
> 
> John crooks a finger and tries his best to put on some come-hither eyes. “C’mere, loverboy,” he growls, and then hooks his fingers into the beltloops of Sherlock’s jeans and hauls him in to nip at his bottom lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and all the love to Marsdaydream and BakerStMel for jumping right back in there and doing beta on this after their wayward author went totally AWOL for 18 months. And thank you, anyone who is reading this after such a long hiatus. <3
> 
> Tereza on Tumblr drew some amazingly gorgeous art for this fic and I love it: http://johnlocklives.tumblr.com/post/123921322853/dirty-dancing-johnlock-pencils-grey-colour-pencil

Chapter Soundtrack: [Love is Strange, Mickey and Sylvia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpEA5QGYJFQ)

 

John wakes just as dawn is staining the sky; pale, watery light filters in through the curtains and leaves a sleeping Sherlock in soft, shadowy relief.

John stretches, feeling deliciously sore from dancing, spent from the excitement of the night, and, as he traces a light touch down the dip of Sherlock’s beautiful back and pushes the sheet over the curve of his arse, incredibly horny.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to grope sleeping people?” Sherlock mumbles into his pillow. 

“Mmmmhmmm,” John says, and traces his fingers back up Sherlock’s hip. He can just see a hint of Sherlock’s cock, stirring slightly against the sheets. “I’ll be happy to stop if you want me to.”

Sherlock chuckles and turns over onto his back, and oh yes, his cock is very definitely interested. John’s mouth waters.  He brushes a curl from over Sherlock’s ear and whispers, “I want to do what you did to me last night,” with his lips so close he can feel the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Show me how.”

“Oh God,” Sherlock moans, and pulls John to him in a deep kiss.  “I don’t know if I’ll survive you watching me with those big grey eyes of yours.”

John smirks and settles himself between Sherlock’s thighs. He splays one hand over Sherlock’s hipbone and leans his cheek on Sherlock’s thigh, and licks his bottom lip while trying to look up at Sherlock through his lashes in as sultry a manner he can manage.

“Correction – I’m definitely not going to survive it.”

John stares at Sherlock’s cock and tries to decide where to start. It’s a bit intimidating, to be honest, thick and veined and flushed with arousal. He settles for a kiss, a simple press of his lips to the tip after gently slipping the foreskin down a bit more.

“Ohhh, yes, that’s perfect. Use your tongue a bit, that’s lovely.” Sherlock sighs and drops his head back against the pillows so John decides to be a bit more bold and wrap his lips around the head and suckle, a bead of precome blooming salty against his tongue.  The skin is silky soft and the taste is beyond anything John could possibly describe. Sherlock moaning with his thighs on either side of John’s head as John inexpertly kisses and tries to suck his cock confirms any lingering thoughts he’s ever had about his desires. John feels powerful, and desirable, and incredibly, incredibly  _ horny _ , oh god. 

He pulls off with a pop to rearrange his position so he can try his best to jerk himself off as he sucks Sherlock, and as he’s trying to figure out the geometry of it he realizes Sherlock is laughing at him.

“Oi! I’m doing my best here,” he says, and strokes Sherlock’s cock. Maybe that will shut him up.

“Please, don’t let me stop you,” Sherlock drawls, eyes slitted in the dim morning light. “But if you’d just slow down a touch, I think we could find something mutually beneficial.”

John sighs and eyes Sherlock’s cock again. “Does it still involve me sucking you? Because I really like that.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and sits up. He pulls John toward him and kisses him, tasting like cigarettes and warmth. John’s content to keep on kissing him, too, because it’s incredible to kiss him, to taste those full lips and know that when he sucked a tiny bit on Sherlock’s lower lip it made his eyelashes flutter. But Sherlock has other ideas, and he maneuvers John around on the bed before pulling away and pushing him gently backward. 

“It’s going to work like this,” he says, and moves to swing his leg over John’s head, his cock brushing John’s chin and Sherlock’s elbows settling on either side of John’s hips.  His lips press featherlight kisses to John’s hips and John melts, sinks into the mattress until he gasps a breath when Sherlock’s mouth closes over the head of his cock. With a jolt, he finally realizes what he’s supposed to do. He grasps Sherlock’s cock and guides it to his own lips, and Sherlock’s moan as he slides the flat of his tongue over the plump head makes John dizzy with want.  

Jesus. The heat of him, the sensation of the soft, slick skin of his cock as it slides between John’s lips sparks and crackles over John’s body like electricity.  He can feel Sherlock sucking insistently, bobbing his head until John’s cock feels like it bumps the back of his throat. It’s as if he and Sherlock never end, a closed loop of pleasure that never ends as they moan and shiver and John tries to anchor himself and his spinning thoughts with a bruising grip on Sherlock’s hips. 

Sherlock pulls off for a moment to gasp and say “Johnny, I’m coming, Johnny—“ and John knows what he’s trying to tell him but he wants it, wants Sherlock to come hot and slick across his tongue, wants to hold something more of him, to have him as completely as Sherlock claimed him. John tightens his grip and tries to prepare himself as Sherlock moans and trembles above him, until it feels like he expands even more against John’s tongue and comes in pulses that fill John’s mouth. 

It’s more than he expects, even, and he tries to swallow but chokes slightly and come slips from the corner of his mouth to drip wetly on the sheets. Jesus. Strange, yes, but the slick on his lips will be seared onto his memory until the day he dies.

Sherlock looks at John from where he’s collapsed on the bed, his head pillowed on John’s thigh.  John  smiles, smug and satisfied, even as he reaches down to stroke his own neglected erection. 

“Oh God. I can’t believe you did that. Wait, let me finish you, Johnny, please,” Sherlock says, and leans over to take John into his mouth again. John yelps with the sensation, his vision collapsing into a narrow point of Sherlock’s curls bouncing over his cock.

If he never does anything else like this for the rest of his life, he knows at least this one time he was completely and utterly happy.

…………………………………………………………………………………..

John drags himself back to the cabin in the pearl grey dawn after lingering kisses at Sherlock’s door that never seemed to end, whispered endearments and affection brimming warm and full in Sherlock’s gorgeous eyes. His hair was a wild halo of frizzy curls, his lips puffy and red, and a red splotch bloomed across his shoulder where John had kissed a little too enthusiastically. He looked shagged out, in John’s opinion. John’s sure he looks the same, and as they part, Sherlock reminds him to take care as he crosses the lawn back to the cabins near the lake, as any fool could see what he’d been up to. 

“I’ve got a promise to Mycroft to pretend to uphold, Johnny,” Sherlock had said, with a kiss to John’s forehead. “And he’ll have my head if he catches you here. He’s tolerant but he’s not going to risk his precious clientele finding out his staff is shagging the guests. Even if they wouldn’t blame me, as gorgeous as you are.”

John couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot the entire way home. 

The screen door barely even creaks as John slips inside, drops his shoes, and creeps down the hall to sink into his own bed for a few precious hours of sleep before he has to face his father again. But as he settles into bed he can still feels Sherlock’s hands on his body, his voice in his ear, and he can only stare at the ceiling as the summer sun breaks over the eastern sky.

...........................................................................................

Breakfast at the main dining room is a tense, silent affair.

Robbie pokes at his eggs, John’s mother glances with furrowed brows between the two of them, and Harry chatters happily about the end-of-the-summer dance in the main ballroom on Saturday night.

“We’re leaving Friday,” Robbie says.

“What?” Harry shrieks, and John’s mother adds, “But we’re paid through Sunday, Robbie. And the final gala is such a good time, you remember. And Johnny needs to show off those dance lessons he’s been taking. I want to see if Irene has managed to succeed where everyone else has failed.”

John glances up at his father from across the table. Robbie looks grave, and disappointed. John wonders with a start just exactly how much Mycroft had told Robbie Watson about his brother’s specific …situation. But before nerves can really set in, Harry shoves herself back from the table.

“I promised Clara I’d be there, Daddy! You can’t make us leave now! And I’m supposed to help Mrs. Glaser choose her new upholstery Saturday morning!” Harry crosses her arms and pouts, a perfect imitation of her six year old self.  Valerie sighs. 

“Harriet Watson, if you ever grow up it will be a miracle. Your father, I’m sure, is simply trying to beat the weekend traffic on our way around London, isn’t that right, dear?”

Robbie is silent for a moment until he finally sighs. “It’s all right, Valerie. We can stay. You’re right, I was just considering the drive, is all.” He smiles wanly. “Now, Harriet darling, what dress were you planning to wear Saturday?”

John sighs and picks at his tomatoes as Harriet chatters happily about green organza and white orchids, and John’s father ignores him, utterly and completely.

………………………………………………………………..

“Oh, Sylvia,” Sherlock croons with the song drifting from the record player.

“Yes, Mickey,” John responds, deliberately feminine and coquettish, and Sherlock grins like a shark.

They’re back in the studio, John having snuck away after breakfast with a mumbled “There’s charades in the East Wing,” and to John it’s the most comfortable he’s been since he left Sherlock’s bed a few hours previous. They’re playing music, goofing around, flirting, dancing, and snogging desperately whenever they’re sure they have a few minutes alone.

“How do you call your loverboy?” Sherlock sings, and prowls across the floor toward John.

John crooks a finger and tries his best to put on some come-hither eyes. “C’mere, loverboy,” he growls, and then hooks his fingers into the beltloops of Sherlock’s jeans and hauls him in to nip at his bottom lip. 

“You’re so incredibly sexy,” John says, and he feels strong, confident, when Sherlock blushes and bites his lip, disarmed. “I want you. Now.”

Sherlock growls and John cups his arse and grinds against him a bit, and just as John’s about to be even more daring than he ever expected of himself and strip Sherlock’s shirt off right there in the studio, they hear a step outside the door. They jump apart, Sherlock to the record player and John mimes a few steps of a cha-cha and hopes to God his semi-hard cock isn’t obvious under his trousers. 

It’s Jim.

“Ah, there you are Sherlock, I thought we should have a chat about …oh ho ho, who do we have here?” Jim stops still and leers at John, and has a look back at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. “Well, I have to admit you’ve got decent taste, Johnny. I mean, I’ve gone slumming too, so—“

Sherlock growls low in his throat and before John can make a move to stop him, he hauls back and punches Jim in the jaw, rattling his teeth and sending him sprawling. John claps a hand over his mouth, horrified at the bloom of red across Jim’s mouth from a split lip. 

Jim, however, just delicately touches the cut and looks at the blood on his fingers before grinning up at Sherlock. “Oh, that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” He slowly climbs to his feet. “You and I both know this will never last. Johnny’s dear old doctor daddy will never permit it. What do you think you’ll do, live together in a Cambridge suite while Johnny here goes to school and you turn tricks for the grocery money? Give me a break, Sherlock.”

John can’t stand it, can’t stand one more disgusting, demeaning phrase. He moves to stand in front of Sherlock and levels his gaze right at Jim, daring him to speak again.

“Johnny, please,” Sherlock murmurs. “You don’t —“

“Awwww, how a _ dor _ able,” Jim sneers. “You’ve got a cute little guard dog there, Sherl. Does he bite?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fuck off. Go wait tables, or do dishes, or whatever it is my brother pays you to do.”

Jim shrugs, saunters toward the door and is almost through before he turns back with a grin. “Just remember, Sherlock, darling. I know why you’re here, and why you might not stay. And Irene too. And as for you, Johnny—“  John sucks in a breath as Jim’s eyes turn on him, narrow and dark and full of malevolence. “I know you’re not as innocent as you seem.” 

John holds his breath until the door at the bottom of the stairs clicks closed, then lets it all out in a whoosh. He looks to Sherlock, all ready to say something smart and sarcastic, but the worried set of Sherlock’s eyebrows leaves him silent, and John gathers him into a quiet embrace instead.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Harder, Johnny, harder, yes, oh fuck  _ yes _ .”

Sherlock pants into the sheets, back shining with sweat as John shakes above him, pushed past the limits of his raw endurance and thrusting into him slowly with a snap of his hips at the end that has Sherlock exhaling his name with every breath.

He’s so incredibly new at this, but the heat of Sherlock’s body surrounding him, lighting him up from the inside out with pleasure, leaves him love-drunk and woozy and ready to do whatever it is Sherlock wants him to do. He pulls out almost the entire way and drives in with another slow thrust, his cock slipping between the sweet curves of Sherlock’s arsecheeks. 

“I—I don’t think I can hold out much longer,” John pants, then drags a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Too good.”

Sherlock shudders and rolls his hips up to meet his thrusts. “Okay, okay, just a minute, Johnny, please, please—“ John pushes him down into the mattress, hard, cutting off his begging and making him moan, long and much louder than he probably should.

“Shut up,” John hisses into his ear. “I’m so close, ah—“ John’s words stick in his throat as his body shudders, his orgasm almost taking him by surprise as Sherlock clenches around him and then cries out his own release as he grasps John’s wrist and holds on tight. 

They lie together a moment, John’s full weight against Sherlock’s back, John’s cheek pressed against the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock eventually shifts under him, though, and grumbles until John withdraws with a gasp and sits back on the bed. Sherlock looks incredibly debauched, semen smeared across the back of his thigh and looking back over his shoulder at Johnny with an eyebrow raised.

“It’s customary to offer a bit of cleanup for your partner, seeing as you’re the one who got him into such a sorry state,” he says, and John flushes from head to toe and scrambles from the bed to fetch a towel from the tiny bathroom. He brings it back and almost trips into bed in his hurry to get back and carefully try to wipe the mess from between Sherlock’s thighs. 

Sherlock chuckles at him and takes the towel from his grasp, cleans himself and John, and pitches it on the floor.  John just glares at him. Arsehole.

“Come on, Johnny, you’re a delight to tease and you know it. Come lie with me a while before you have to get back.”

John rolls his eyes but climbs back under the blankets anyway and settles against Sherlock’s chest. He’s shocked at how easily he’s found comfort here, how quickly he’s adapted to being with Sherlock in this way. It’s an experience he never thought he’d have, fully anticipating being near to celibate his entire life, or perhaps only having the most fleeting of encounters. But Sherlock—what could Sherlock be? What are they? What does Sherlock expect?

“Have you had many…er. Many men, like me?” John rolls his eyes at himself. Smooth, John. Very low-key.

Sherlock turns and John can almost feel him looking at the top of John’s head. “What brought that on?”

John sits up and traces a finger over Sherlock’s chest as he speaks. “Well, you know. What Jim said.”

“What, about me turning tricks? No, Johnny. I’ve never resorted to that particular way of earning money, though it was tempting a few times.”

John pushes his face into Sherlock’s side. “No, not that. It’s. Um. I leave in a few days, and I really like being with you and I’d really like it if, if you could, well.“ John stops before he says anything else stupid or revealing. 

“Johnny, you know I’m stuck here. I can’t get away from Mycroft until I can afford to get my own place in London. Irene isn’t ready to go.”

“I know, but you could come to Cambridge, you know? With me. You’ve not been to uni yet, we could maybe go together? Until Irene is better, of course, I mean, I know she’s important to you.” John’s heart pounds; this was not exactly what he’d planned on saying, not at all, but the end of the week is looming large in his mind and the more they do this, the more the possibility of never seeing Sherlock again feels painful.

“Oh Johnny,” Sherlock begins, and dear god, it sounds much, much too gentle to be anything good. “You can’t even tell your father what we were doing the other night. You’re not going to tell him we’re together, nor would I want you to destroy your future for me with that sort of confession. I don’t see how that could happen.” Here John opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock keeps talking. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t ever visit you.” Sherlock climbs out of bed, the sheets falling away from his nude body as he walks toward the window, moonlight streaming in and highlighting the muscles of his shoulders, his thighs, his chest. He’s beautiful and perfect, so much so it makes John ache. Sherlock twitches the curtains closed and turns back to him. 

“I’m going to London as soon as I can. I’ve decided to become a consulting detective.” 

John stares. “A what?”

“A consulting detective. When the police or private citizens are out of their depth, they’ll call me for help. I’ve got the eye for it, the reasoning skills. I’m fascinated by puzzles, by mysteries, and I think I could make my name there.” He comes back over and sits down on the bed. “And besides, Molly’s going to be a pathologist. I’d have the best contact for only the most interesting cases.” Sherlock wiggles his eyebrows at him and John laughs, slightly relieved. 

“See, I told you. You could be anything you wanted.” He looks at the clock – 10 pm. Damn. “I should probably get back before I’m missed,” John says, and sighs. 

Sherlock leans over and kisses John slowly, softly, his tongue teasing across John’s bottom lip and making John’s quenched arousal shudder to life. “Yeah, but  _ I’ll _ miss you, Johnny. And isn’t that more important?”  John sighs dramatically but allows Sherlock to push him back on the bed and kiss his way down John’s chest. John slides his hands into Sherlock’s hair and smiles.

He’s not sure this is forever. He’s not sure it’s really for more than right now, as heartbreaking as that seems. But it’s okay. They have another four days, and John will be going off to University, and Sherlock will have the winter to find himself a way out from under Mycroft’s thumb. 

But it is possible, John thinks. It’s possible they might have a tiny chance at a future beyond the summer, beyond the Lodge, and beyond John and Sherlock’s own fears. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the relevant scene from the movie, if you're interested: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxCDAs3kbAU


End file.
